Sins of the Father
by Pompey
Summary: A case involving the disappearance of two young girls, with its roots in Holmes's past, causes difficulties for both Holmes and Watson. Based on 2 of KCS's 221-B drabbles -- "A Battle" and "Blinking". COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_In gratitude for KCS allowing me to steal the plot bunny from her "221 B" drabble series, this story is a (somewhat prolonged) birthday gift to her. _

_but I'm sure she'll let everyone read it too. ;) _

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was looking thoughtfully at a telegram when I staggered into the sitting room, weary beyond belief and chilled to the bone. Taking one look at me, he laid aside the paper and stoked the fire. Then, as I collapsed into my chair, he passed me a glass of brandy and left an afghan within arm's reach.

"Mr. Callum is dead then?"

"Yes," I sighed. I had mentioned in passing to Holmes that poor Callum's case looked dire; the man had been nearly seventy with a rare and virulent form of pneumonia. Even so, I loathed losing any patient. Holmes knew that. My countenance alone was undoubtedly enough to deduce Callum's death, to say nothing of my having been called away suddenly almost six hours ago in wretched early-February weather.

"At the risk of throwing your own words back at you, you are running yourself ragged, Watson," Holmes scolded me gently.

It was true I had been absent from Baker Street more than I had been present these past couple months. Even without a practice, the services of every able-bodied doctor had been in demand. I smiled tiredly and sipped at my drink. "Well, it is influenza season, after all. Fortunately it has almost run its course."

"And not a moment too soon."

"No," I agreed. "I haven't seen an influenza season this bad since . . ." I trailed off, hoping to halt the onslaught of unpleasant memories before it began.

"Since?" prompted Holmes curiously.

"Late '91 and early '92," I finished softly.

"Ah." He fell silent for a moment, no doubt aware of hard that year had been for me, for so many reasons. There had been that infamous incident at Reichenbach but also the passing of Mary's and my infant daughter. It is terrible to mourn the death of a child but in the case of a baby, I think, it is worse. One mourns not only the child itself but the lost potential for the person she would have grown into.

Holmes interrupted my dark musings by passing me the telegram he had been reading. "If you are not too fatigued, perhaps you would care to take a look at this." It read:

Please help me will call ten am tomorrow.

Emily Lynch

"What a presumptuous, perfunctory message!" I cried, setting my brandy aside.

"Do you think so?" Holmes smiled. "I should rather like to hear your reasoning for such a statement."

"Well, for one, the lady assumes you will be free on a Sunday morning at the time she specifies rather than requesting to meet with you. There is also the matter of the lack of sentence breaks and her use of 'am' instead of 'a.m.' I also find it curious that she leaves off her pronoun entirely. Is she married or unmarried? We have no way of knowing the correct way of addressing her when she does come to call, which I find unnecessarily awkward and rude."

Still smiling, Holmes took back the telegram. "It has been a rough day for you, Watson, or I do not think you would be so quick to judge. For my part, I find the construction of her message to illustrate her strength of character and her ingenuity."

"How so?"

"The briefness of the telegram and the, as you put it, 'presumptuousness' of her desire to call at ten o'clock tomorrow morning tells of her need to economize. Sunday, of course, is a day of rest for laborers and the only day she is free to come. She dares not take a leave of absence from her work, no matter how dire her straights. Also, the telegram companies force her to have a minimum of ten words but she wastes not a one of them. 'Am' transmits as one word but 'a.m.' transmits as two, after all. Yet she begins with 'please,' an unnecessary politeness. As for what form of address to utilize, the lady is undoubtedly married."

I shook my head. "Come now, Holmes, however could you know that?"

"I know that because I already know of the lady. That may be one of the reasons she left off her pronoun to begin with." With that, Holmes turned to his indexes, pulling down the "L" volume and after a moment's hesitation, the "V" one as well.

"Do you have her listed under her maiden name?" I asked, for that was the only reason I could think of for the second volume.

"No. You may be gratified to learn I am utterly in the dark as to Mrs. Lynch's maiden name. I do, however, know her husband." So saying, Holmes passed me the "L" volume while he opened the "V." I was confused as to why Mr. Lynch would be listed under "V" instead of "L" and I said as much even as I turned pages dutifully.

"Victor Lynch," Holmes answered quietly, pausing in his search, "was one of my original Irregulars when I still lived on Montague Street. When he turned fourteen I helped him gain an apprenticeship at a bookstore specializing in antiques and rarities; he showed a remarkable interest in historical articles. He did very well, until the financial strain of a young but growing family tempted him to begin forging old books. He was quite good at it too."

"How was he caught?" I faltered. "Did you –"

"No, it was not I who caught him at it." My friend sighed. "However, I was at his trial. He was shown some leniency but even so, was sentenced to five years of hard labor. It was five years ago this year, as I recall, which may explain the desperate message from his wife today."

With this knowledge came a better understanding of the lady's circumstances. With a husband in jail and at least one child to care for, her life must be one of hardships. Small wonder she had phrased the telegram in the manner she had.

"Do you wish me to assist you in this matter?" I asked hesitantly. Clearly whatever mystery Mrs. Lynch had to bring to Holmes was one which would stir up unpleasant memories that, intensely private person that he was, he might not wish to share with me.

Instead, he looked surprised that I would even ask such a thing. "Certainly I would value your help," answered he readily. "That is, if it is not inconvenient. You yourself said this is influenza season."

I took up my brandy once again and enjoyed the warmth from the freshly-stoked fire. "I cannot make any guarantees but I shall do my best to be available." This optimism was sorely strained when shortly thereafter came a request to see yet another patient.


	2. Chapter 2

In the early morning darkness I stumbled up the stairs to the sitting room, almost too tired to see straight. It had been yet another difficult influenza case but by the time I had left, my patient was resting comfortably. Soon I hoped to do so myself, at least for a few hours until Mrs. Lynch arrived. Holmes had retired but left an isolated candle in a reasonably safe spot in anticipation of my return, for which I was unspeakably grateful. The last thing I needed was barking a shin on some unseen piece of furniture.

It was tempting to simply fall asleep on the couch but I resisted. It would not do to be woken by Holmes's client; his practice may be unorthodox but we both do seek to maintain some level of professionalism.

Once in bed, it seemed I had no sooner closed my eyes than some sudden, loud noise intruded upon my slumber. Thin daylight was already streaming through the window and my watch read nearly five after ten. Hastily I dressed and descended to the sitting room where Holmes was offering a lady a cup of tea.

Mrs. Emily Lynch appeared closer to twenty-five than to thirty yet the fear and grief marring her face aged her far more than lines would have. She had pulled her hair back in a severe style and her dark dress was plain to the extreme. I noted there was an expertly mended tear near the right cuff. Her grip on the teacup and saucer was far tighter than the fragile china warranted and it was clear to my medical eye she was doing her utmost to modulate her breathing.

Holmes glanced up as I entered, with a quirk of his brows. I favored him with as dark a look as I dared, for I had no doubt he would have let me sleep on through the consultation. He ignored my implied criticism and sat back in his chair. "Mrs. Lynch, my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. You may trust him implicitly as you do me."

Mrs. Lynch gave me a quavering smile. "Thank you," she murmured. She moved to say more but instead bit her lip and stared into the contents of her tea cup.

I settled into my chair and saw that Holmes was watching the lady intently. "Your husband Victor is due to be released next week, if I am not mistaken."

Immediately her head raised and she set aside her cup. "Yes. He is." She stared at my friend with iron determination. "Victor may have been in prison, Mr. Holmes, but he is not a criminal. He may have strayed for the path but he has repented of his actions. He did so even before his arrest. I know in my heart he is still a good man, Mr. Holmes, no matter what others may say."

"I quite agree, Mrs. Lynch," Holmes replied gently. "Moreover, even if I were inclined to bear hard feelings towards Victor, which I am not, I would not be so callous or illogical as to blame his wife for his transgressions."

"No, of course not," Mrs. Lynch whispered, coloring faintly. "I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I am somewhat overly sensitive when it comes to that particular subject."

"But that is not what has brought you here today," Holmes observed.

"No. It . . . concerns our daughters." Tears formed in her eyes but she continued, blinking hard to stay their falling. "They are gone."

"Gone? Do you mean run away?"

"I don't know!" The poor woman closed her eyes tightly and clenched her fists, visibly willing herself into a calmer state. Even so, a rebellious tear leaked through her lashes and slipped down her cheek. I was in the motion of pulling out my handkerchief to offer her when Holmes covered one of her hands with his, almost impulsively.

"Mrs. Lynch," he said soothingly, "we will do everything within our powers to help you and your daughters. For their sake, you must tell us everything about the circumstances leading up to this. Now, I note you have employment as a private seamstress from your rooms near Bayham Street in Camden Town."

"Why, yes," she faltered. "I work in the sewing room of Paxton's Department Store. The girls –" Here she paused but swallowed hard and continued. "It is painful for me to say but I must leave them alone in our rooms while I work. Abigail is seven, and I know she is old enough to attend day school but I daren't leave Lucy by herself for so long. Lucy is not quite five, you see. Our landlady, Miss Pringle, checks on them now and then but she is not a nanny, as she has told me often enough.

"They are bright girls, both of them, and capable. They know they are never to step outside without me, except to buy bread or tea from the little grocery shop around the corner. I leave them a little money on such occasions. That is what happened on Friday. I came home at eight in the evening and . . . they weren't there. I was frantic. I spoke to Miss Pringle and the grocer. Miss Pringle had neither seen nor heard from them all day. The grocer had, but at noon. He had assumed they went straight home. After that I went to the police right away but they were not encouraging. That is when I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, but if I failed to shop up to work yesterday I would have been discharged immediately. Please, gentlemen, do not think me heartless for waiting so long to seek your help. I cannot afford to lose my position, though I think I was close to it yesterday. I could hardly see my stitches for tears."

"Certainly we think nothing of the kind," I said immediately. "It is the situation that is deplorable, not your actions."

Holmes shot me a quick smile of gratitude and turned back to Mrs. Lynch. "What was the state of your rooms when you returned? Were any objects missing as well?"

"The fire was out. The money I had left them for bread was gone, as was their winter clothing, my warmest shawl, and Lucy's rag doll."

Holmes's face was dark and serious. "Do you know of anyone who may wish you or your family harm?"

"There are the people who bought Victor's forgeries, of course, but why one of them should seek retribution now baffles me." Mrs. Lynch hesitated. "Miss Pringle has made it clear she does not approve of me or of Victor. If I am late paying rent by even a day we are threatened with eviction. I do not mean to cast aspersion on her character but that woman is the truest enemy I have."

"One last question, Mrs. Lynch. Do your daughters go out to any place other than the corner store?"

"No, never. Never. I have told them over and over how dangerous that is. I have never had any reason to mistrust them."

"In that case, I think we had better accompany you to your rooms and begin the investigation from there," concluded Holmes. He rose to his feet, Mrs. Lynch did the same, and despite the terrible residual fatigue I was feeling, I too emulated them.


	3. Chapter 3

Bayham Street, we discovered, was no less squalid or dingy than it had been in Charles Dickens's day. That the day itself was grey, sullen, and chill did nothing to improve the conditions of the miserable little buildings that sagged along the street. Mrs. Lynch's building, No. 9, merely blended into the drabness of its surroundings.

The lady led us up a rickety staircase all the colder for the dampness and into the apartments themselves. By virtue of the heavy oilcloth over the windows it was warmer, although terribly dark. The furnishings were spare -- a table, some chairs, and two beds. A few personal belongings were scattered about, lending an air of pitiful cheeriness in the otherwise spartan room.

Mrs. Lynch slowly undid her scarf and observed our reactions warily. No doubt she anticipated some painfully polite comment to which she would have to respond in an equally polite fashion. Instead, Holmes merely asked, "If I may?" and drew back the makeshift curtains before commencing his investigation.

Usually I am as fascinated by Holmes's methods as his awe-struck clients. Today, however, I was preoccupied by the disquieting knowledge that the simple walk up the stairs had left me somewhat breathless. I could interpret this turn of events as a sign that I was growing no younger or as testament to Holmes's view that I was overworking myself of late. Neither were especially appealing but given the choice I opted for the latter.

Meanwhile, Holmes had paused in his perusal of the small collection of children's books. "You said neither of your daughters attend school, yet these are textbooks."

"Yes," admitted Mrs. Lynch. "I try to teach them a little in the evenings when we are not too tired. It is not consistent schooling but it is something."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, quietly sincere. "Education is a thing not to be taken lightly. Has either ever attended any school?"

"No. I took them to look around the nearby charity school once shortly before the fall term began but they were never enrolled."

He gave a brief nod of his head to acknowledge this. "Your landlady is in, I presume?"

"She is, but – "

"I should very much like to speak with her."

"Do you suspect her?" Mrs. Lynch cried.

"Not as yet but as I have little data I cannot discount her either." With this rather less than reassuring response, Holmes left the room and was halfway down the stairs before either I or Mrs. Lynch could stir. I offered her a wry smile and allowed her to exit before me.

Holmes was waiting patiently for us by a closed door that could not entirely block out the sounds of an incessantly creaky rocking chair. Once we joined him, he rapped smartly upon the wood. I noted Mrs. Lynch was worrying her lower lip anxiously with her teeth and I was struck again by how young she was to face such trials.

Immediately the creaking stopped and the door was opened part way by a woman who so matched Bayham Street it seemed unthinkable she could have lived anywhere else. She was of medium height but rail-thin and approximately fifty years of age. Both her hair and eyes were of a steel grey and she was clad in a gown of dull beige that did no favors for her coloring. These traits alone would not have rendered her unattractive save that they were accompanied by an attitude of utter contempt for the world at large. No wonder Mrs. Lynch had such apprehension about disturbing Miss Pringle.

The landlady's cold eyes took in the younger woman's shrinking form and raked over myself and Holmes. "Must I remind you, Mrs. Victor Lynch, that you are not permitted to receive male visitors while under my roof? Have you no sense of decorum? And on the Sabbath too!"

"I can assure you, Miss Pringle, that there is no impropriety here," Holmes responded with a careful blend of chivalry and mastery. "We are investigating the disappearance of Abigail and Lucy Lynch."

"Are you the police?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

"I have already spoken to the police, and if you are not with them then I am under no obligation to speak to you." She began to close the door but was stopped by Holmes's foot between it and the frame.

As it so often happens, it was not her words but her contemptuous manner that rankled. I have never spoken harshly to a woman before but Miss Pringle sorely tempted this precedence. Mrs. Lynch flushed with vicarious embarrassment. However, Holmes remained as cool and unaffected as ever.

"Certainly that is true," he smiled, "but I cannot see an upstanding woman such as yourself wishing to hamper the recovery of two young children in any way. It is they, after all, who would suffer in the long run."

Her cold eyes narrowed at his words. "And what is it you wish of me?"

"A few moments of your time."

Miss Pringle finally opened the door fully and folded her arms across her chest. "You may have five minutes."

"Thank you. You are familiar with the girls?"

"I look in on them from time to time. I cannot do more than that. I am a busy woman who cannot play nursemaid whenever it suits my tenants." Here Miss Pringle shot a venomous look at Mrs. Lynch.

"You looked in on them the morning they disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything amiss with them? Any change in demeanor?"

"No."

"Do you know of any places outside of this building they might be familiar with?"

"I do not."

"Have you ever spoken of their father to them?"

An expression of shock crossed her face, all the more agreeable to my eyes as it wholly replaced the contempt. "On occasion."

"What is it you have told them?"

"The truth," answered she, once again haughty. "That their father broke the law by attempting deception on innocent people, and is now in prison." Mrs. Lynch made a small noise of protest, which was cut short by another icy glare. "That is the truth, is it not, Mrs. Lynch?"

The poor lady was saved from answering by Holmes's next question. "Have you ever told them their father would not care for them, or that he would turn their mother against them?"

"Never."

"Insinuated it then?"

A dull flush of red colored those sallow cheeks. "If children draw certain conclusions from my words, it is no fault of mine if they are in error. Are you quite through, Mr. Holmes?"

"One last question and the imposition is over. From what you know of the girls, do you think it possible they left of their own volition?"

"Yes."

"You seem quite certain of that."

"They are generally well-mannered children" -- this said in as grudging a tone as ever I have heard -- "but their upbringing allows for them to run wild, should they take such a notion into their heads. No good ever came from giving a child that much freedom and I am certain their _parents_ will live to rue that."

While we stood in stunned silence, Miss Pringle flashed us a triumphant smile and shut the door firmly.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Lynch trembled with strong emotion but she remained silent until Holmes had gently guided her away from Miss Pringle's door and back to the stairwell. "That vile, wicked woman!" she whispered passionately, digging her nails into the bannister. "I had no idea she . . . If I had known . . . Oh, curse her!" Tears shone in her eyes but did not fall.

My friend grasped her hand, his own eyes bright with determination. "We will find them," he vowed quietly. "Do not doubt that. I will see your daughters returned to you and to Victor."

"I trust you and Dr. Watson," replied she, equally quiet. "But I am sick with the thought that they ran away out of fear, fear of their father. I tried so hard to reassure them; I was so sure they understood he was a good man who made a mistake. What sort of mother am I, to allow that woman to twist their minds?"

"You are a greatly tried woman," answered Holmes gently. "Pray do not distress yourself further with such thoughts. I myself am not yet convinced they ran away."

"Thinking they are kidnapped is not much of a comfort," Mrs. Lynch murmured tremulously.

"On the contrary. If the girls were taken from off the street they are almost certainly alive and unharmed. True, they would be among strangers but they would also be reasonably cared for. Now, I have but a few more questions to put to you."

"I will help in any way I can."

"How soon after Victor's arrest did you relocate?"

"About six months, after Lucy's birth. The rent was beyond my means by then, and I would not rely on the charity of what friends I had left."

"Have you retained contact with your family?"

Mrs. Lynch managed a small, twisted smile. "They did not approve of Victor before we married. And afterwards . . . I was asked to move back with them. I declined. Then they asked me to at least give up my girls to them and I refused. We have not spoken since. Nor have we exchanged any correspondence."

"Have you or your daughters ever been returned to your old rooms?"

"No. I have never spoke of it and I doubt they even remember it, they were both so young. As far as they are concerned, they have always lived on Bayham Street."

"The grocer where they were sent to buy bread, it is just down the street at the corner there?" Holmes gestured towards the left of the outside door.

"Yes."

"One last query, Mrs. Lynch. Can you describe the girls, what they look like and what they were wearing last?"

"Of course I can," she answered. "Abby is about this tall –" she raised her hand to waist level, just above three and a half feet – "and Lucy is perhaps six inches shorter. Lucy is quite blonde and her eyes are brown. She never goes anywhere without her rag doll. I made it from an old stocking for her, with black yarn for hair. Abby favors Victor more; her hair is auburn, almost strawberry blonde, and she has brown eyes and just a touch of freckles all year round. They were both wearing blue calico dresses with brown stockings and boots when I left our rooms. I had braided their hair in single braids, but the thread I used to bind the ends may have come loose by now. Their winter coats are dark brown wool and they each have dark red mittens and knit caps with matching knit scarves. My shawl is wool of a dark green and navy blue plaid shot through with yellow; I nearly forgot that was missing as well. None of their outerwear remains . . . I just pray they are wearing them . . . " Mrs. Lynch took a deep breath and her face composed itself, although her fingers still gripped the banister so tightly her knuckles were white. "Is there anything else you wish to know, Mr. Holmes?"

"No," my friend assured her. "You have done remarkably well in this matter. Be strong, and leave the rest to me. I shall keep you abreast of each development."

* * *

"Do you truly think those children are better off kidnapped than as run-aways?" I asked once outside. Small flakes of snow drifted through the air, more grey than white. The damp cold of the atmosphere seemed to sink through to my bones and set my teeth to chattering.

"It is, by a slim margin, the lesser of two evils," answered Holmes grimly, striding down that dismal street. "However, I am less concerned about the reason they left than I am about the reason they have not returned, since I am certain they did not run away."

"How can you be sure?"

Holmes paused at an alley, peering into it intently and answering my question rather absently. "Not enough of their belongings were missing." This, to me, was not an answer so much as a cause for more questions and demands for explanations. However, I knew to hold my peace until Holmes found whatever it was he was searching for or until he abandoned the quest.

It was the latter, or so it appeared. My friend gave an irritable huff and continued down the street. Only then did I feel safe inquiring what he had meant.

Holmes smiled slyly. "As a child, did you never wish to run away from home? No? What a fortunate childhood you have had. Depend on it, Watson, when a child leaves home of her own volition she will take with her her most beloved possessions and a modicum of food. This was not the case here."

"Mrs. Lynch said Lucy's rag doll was gone," I protested.

"She also said that Lucy never goes anywhere without her doll. I take 'anywhere' to include the corner store. Besides, nothing of Abigail's was missed other than her winter clothing."

I acknowledged the logic in this but persisted, "But surely the reason for the disappearance is the same as they reason they remain missing, whether they ran away or were kidnapped."

"There is still a third choice," replied he, solemn once again. "I do not doubt Mrs. Lynch's assessment of their intelligence and good sense but they are young children, after all, and prone to episodes of irrationality. Think. They day they are last seen, they go together to buy bread. Perhaps on the way they spot a puppy and follow it out of their neighborhood. Suddenly they are lost and cannot find their way home. Or perhaps the puppy slips into an abandoned building. They follow and become trapped."

"If that is the case they could very well be dead already!" I exclaimed in dismay.

"Courage, Watson. Recall that the grocer saw them buy bread on Friday. It had not yet been a full forty-eight hours that they have been missing. Moreover, the weather has been chill but not yet frigid. We may find them cold, hungry, and frightened but we shall find them alive."

"What of the landlady?" I asked, attempting to keep pace with Holmes's strides. "What role does she play in this?"

"That I have yet to determine, although I am curious as to why there is a discrepancy between what she told Mrs. Lynch originally and what she told us just now. It might have proven amusing, if not instructing, to hear her explanation. She is as cool an agent as ever I saw. Perhaps I shall ask her at the conclusion of this mystery."

"She lied?"

"Certainly she did. The only import of it, however, is which version is the lie."


	5. Chapter 5

I cast my mind back over the details we had been told of the case. I did not doubt Holmes's word and doubted even less that the unpleasant Miss Pringle had lied at some point but I could find no inconsistency. Of course, I did not have my notes to aid me. Nor did I have full powers of concentration at present, being distracted by the insidious cold and a resumption of that disquieting breathlessness I had noted in Mrs. Lynch's room. "What was the lie?" I asked finally.

Holmes paused and glanced at me. "She told Mrs. Lynch she had not seen the girls all day Friday, yet she told us she saw them that morning."

"Why, that's so," I mused, "but you asked Miss Pringle outright if she had seen them that morning specifically. You knew that she had even before you asked her!"

"No, not 'knew,' Watson. Strong suspected." Holmes stopped at the second alley we passed and subjected it to the same intensive examination as the first.

"Why? What aroused your suspicions?"

"Hush!" he snapped with an impatient wave of his hand. He peered around a moment longer. "Ha! You there! Charlie!" I saw a flicker of movement from the recesses of the alley and eventually a ragged little urchin of about eleven or twelve emerged. He approached us as warily as a feral dog but his smudged little face lit up when he recognized the detective.

"Misteh 'olmes!" he exclaimed, bringing a decidedly Welsh lilt to the usual Cockney accent. "Is it back t'work then?"

"Yes, Charlie, I have a job for you and the rest of the boys. Standard pay with a guinea for the boy who finds them."

"Beggin' pardon, sir, but a bob don't go as far as it used teh," said Charlie with all the innocence and sincerity of a young saint. "Moight have teh ante up more."

For my part I was amused by the nerve of the lad but Holmes took the news seriously. "Quite right. Inflation is inescapable for us all. Right then, Charlie, let them know it's to be a bob and tanner a day but the guinea remains firm. The work is this: I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for news of two young girls along this street." Holmes proceeded to repeat Mrs. Lynch's description. "Remind the others, Charlie, these girls do not have your street knowledge. What may be common sense to you is utterly unknown to them. Bear that in mind while on the search."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing, my boy, and then off you go. Decide amongst yourselves who shall report to me in Baker Street. I do not want to see the lot of you tramping up to my sitting room, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" With a salute that would have been the despair of Her Majesty's Army, the boy was off like shot, disappearing back into the gloom of the alley from whence he came.

"Six pair of eyes will make quicker work of the search than just our two pair," Holmes confided as we resumed our walk.

"I didn't know the Irregulars were still under your commission," commented I, trying not to pant too hard. The cold air made it all the more difficult to catch my breath. "I rather thought they had been disbanded."

"It never hurts to be prepared, my dear fellow. When I returned to London I made sure to keep a few boys in my employment for situations such as these. The original Irregulars, of course, have grown and moved on." Holmes caught his breath suddenly and let it out in a soft sigh. He thrust his hands into his pockets with unwarranted violence against the seams.

One need not be a detective to know what had disturbed him. I thought again of Victor Lynch and felt a pang of regret for the waste of his young life, though I had never known him personally. It would not be easy for him to move beyond his criminal past. There would be the difficulty of finding an employer to trust him. There would also be the difficulty in earning back the trust of his family, especially that of his daughters. That is, provided we could find the girls.

I wondered how much guilt my friend placed squarely on his own shoulders concerning the fate of his former Irregular, and how large a part that guilt played in his desire to find the Lynch children. That is not to say Holmes would work any less hard to find the girls had their father been any other man. Rather, that they were _Victor Lynch's_ children added an element of desperation for success despite all odds. It was possible, perhaps, that Holmes saw the triumphant conclusion of this case as a form of redemption for failing his former protégée.

It was illogical, of course. Holmes was no more responsible for Victor's incarceration than he was for his brother's position in Whitechapel. A man must make his own decisions and accept the consequences, be they for good or for ill. And even I knew that often times Holmes's band of street urchins took to pick-pocketing and petty thievery, though he made it plain he did not condone such actions. Nevertheless, having assumed the role of protector and mentor for a youngster, it is difficult -- sometimes impossible -- to drop it once such a role is made superfluous. That I could understand full well.

"I beg your pardon, Watson," Holmes said suddenly as we neared what I presumed was the grocer in question. "Your question had disrupted my concentration but that is a poor excuse for rudeness. As for how I suspected Miss Pringle had lied to our client initially, it was not difficult. By Mrs. Lynch's own words, her landlady had decided to make her the target of harassment. Why, then, should this landlady feel compelled to offer her enemy the truth? As for looking in on them in the morning, it was likely during the afternoon or early evening that they disappeared."

"Miss Pringle does seem the likeliest suspect in this," I commented.

"That is precisely why we must guard ourselves against seeking evidence against her specifically. We shall leave that to the police."


	6. Chapter 6

I understood Holmes's point and accepted the wisdom therein. Even so, I should have liked nothing more than for us to find concrete evidence indicting Miss Pringle in this case. The odious woman simply invited dislike; otherwise I should not have been so quick to judge her. That is, I fear, the only poor excuse I can offer for my willingness to think ill of a lady.

Mrs. Lynch referred to the facility as a grocery store. In truth, it was not much of an establishment as far as food stores went. The supplies were limited in both variety and numbers. The primary source of pride could only come from its well-maintained cleanliness and airiness. The proprietor, too, matched his store with shabby but carefully pressed clothing and jovial manner.

His brows shot up as we walked through the door. "Good morning, gentlemen," said he, discreetly stowing under the counter a battered copy of _The Pink 'Un_. "Can I help you?" There was a touch of anxiousness to his manner that I found strange, until I noticed him eyeing the silver top of Holmes's cane. Then I understood that our apparel had given us away as belonging to a class that did not often frequent his store.

"I certainly hope you can," replied Holmes sincerely. "We are investigating the disappearances of Abigail and Lucy Lynch. We have heard that they were last seen here."

"Yes, I've heard that," the grocer mourned with a shake of his head. "Poor little mites. Their poor mother must be out of her mind with worry. We live in dark days, gentlemen, dark days when children are snatched right off the streets."

"Do you believe they were kidnapped?" asked Holmes blandly.

"Well, what else?" the storekeeper demanded. "You don't know the types around here; they'd just as soon steal your eyeteeth as look at you. Two little girls like that all alone on the street – helpless little mice before the cat and that's the truth."

"There are some who believe the girls merely ran away."

"Stuff and nonsense, sir!" exclaimed the grocer. "Run away to where? To be taken in by the Queen of Sheba, perhaps? They had a good home here with a loving mother. No, sir, they were snatched away."

"Did you interact with them often?"

"Well, no, but I can tell you that when I did they were always polite little things to me. Well bred, if you take my meaning, even if they did live on Bayham Street. None of that lip the nippers today think is cleverness. It's a right shame, it is."

Whether the grocer referred to the fate of the missing girls or the manner of modern youngsters, I could not discern. "You did not see them on Friday, sir?" I asked, trying to conceal my impatience.

"No, not I. I was up to my ears in forms and paperwork in the backroom all Friday. My clerk, Joseph Abbot, was actually the one to wait on them on Friday. He said they bought some bread and tea, just as they always did whenever they came in. Sometimes it was Mrs. Lynch who came in but I don't recall her being here for at least a week."

"Do you know where we might find Joseph Abbot today?" Holmes inquired.

The grocer scratched his chin reflectively. "Well, I suppose you might find him at home with his mother and sisters. Lad's the man of the household now, fifteen though he is. Father passed away a few years ago."

"His address?" Holmes prompted, interrupting what threatened to turn into a rambling life story of the young clerk.

"Right, sir." He tore off a long strip of paper from the pad beside his register and scribbled upon it with a pencil whose lead was none too sharp. "Here you are then." Holmes accepted the paper with alacrity and thanked him with a smile. Wasting no time, we made for the door.

"Good luck to you, gentlemen!" the grocer called after us. "I do hope you find them!" And indeed, his broad forehead was wrinkled in concern.

I do not recall the address of Master Joseph nor accurately relay how long of a journey it was by foot. What I do recall is that it began snowing lightly but incessantly not long after we set out. Even when Holmes slowed our pace to prevent slipping on hidden ice, I found it difficult going. Old wounds do not take well to damp weather or strenuous exertion and there was a steady pressure in my temples and around my chest. These maladies made the walk seem far longer than I am sure it truly was.

Mrs. Abbot answered Holmes's knock and, with a bellow loud enough to be heard halfway across the city, bade her son to join her at the door. Despite the unwelcome volume of her voice, she too was concerned over the fate of the girls and in her eagerness to be of help, nearly browbeat her son to remember every slightest detail about their visit. I confess I had my doubts as to his testament for no better reason than my first impression of him: a clumsy gait aggravated by gangly height he had not yet accustomed himself to; a hunching, sloping posture; and a shock of carrot-orange hair with low, somewhat gravelly voice inclined to cracking. To his credit, the young man belied his appearance and mannerisms with a surprisingly thorough account.

"They came in just a little before noon. I know, because the church bells began chiming twelve when they left and it didn't take them very long to pick out their purchases. They were all wrapped up in dark coats and were wearing their hats and mittens and scarves. They were always bundled up so in the winter. I noted that," Joseph explained with a shy smile, "because when I was that age you couldn't have kept such wrappings on me for love nor money. And because the older one had to take off her mittens and pull the money out to pay me. I guess she did that to make sure she wouldn't lose any coins. The little one had a doll with her that she carried in some kind of plaid sling over her shoulder like a rag-collector's sack. It looked like it was made from a woman's shawl, like my mother's.

"They always bought a single loaf of medium-coarse bread and some spoonfuls of black tea leaf. Maybe once in a while they would purchase some sugar but they didn't two days ago. They don't come in very often, maybe a couple times a month. There's no real pattern to it; it's more occasional like. The oldest girl paid me and the younger one took her doll out of the sling so they could carry the bread and tea. The older girl took the sling and then she took her sister's hand and they walked out of the store together. I didn't see which way they went. I assumed they were headed home. They didn't seem upset or frightened or anything like that. They just seemed the same as always."

Holmes's eyebrows rose in mild appreciation. "Thank you, young man," he said warmly. "I could not have hoped for a better account of the event."

Joseph flushed a pink that clashed violently with the tint of his hair. "I've read all of your stories, sir," he mumbled. "I try to keep my eyes open."

"And you have done that excellently," avowed Holmes, politely overlooking the implication that he himself had written the tales that had frequented _The Strand_.

"Is there anything else we can do to help?" put in Mrs. Abbot exclaimed, clasping her hands before her.

"Not at this time, thank you. I have another line of inquiry in this matter that I very much hope will prove fruitful, although I will certainly return if I have any further questions."


	7. Chapter 7

"The other line of inquiry you mentioned," I began once we were back outside, "would that be the Irregulars?"

"Well, yes. I also referred to my own personal investigations in this matter that I will be commencing immediately." Holmes looked skyward at the still-falling flakes and then glanced at me. "Will you be able to join me or is the tide of patients not yet ebbing?"

I hesitated. In truth, my professional services were still much in demand. There was a time when Holmes would take offense when I chose medicine over mystery but he had become less possessive of my time since his return to London. It was my own vacillation that stayed my response. That, and a growing sense that Holmes had been correct about running myself ragged.

"May I assume from your silence that it is the latter?" asked Holmes mildly, almost teasing me.

"I fear so," I admitted reluctantly.

My friend shrugged. "Well, it cannot be helped. Patients must be tolerated with patience, as it were. We shall meet back at Baker Street, then. May I suggest, though, that you hail a cab rather than walk? Road conditions are somewhat hazardous at the moment and a cane gives only so much aid." I realized I was leaning rather heavily on my cane and promptly stopped. Entirely too late, as far as Holmes was concerned.

We parted company once we had retraced our steps to Bayham Street. I did indeed follow Holmes's advice though I waited until he had disappeared around a corner. It was, of course, nothing more than sheer, uncalled-for stubbornness. He would undoubtedly deduce my method of travel from the lack of snow from my boots, hat, and coat.

***

Holmes has accused me of succumbing to popular taste by overly dramatizing his methods. I confess, when it comes to some cases I must take certain liberties. A particular literary agent told me it is in the best interest of the narrative to condense or eliminate certain details or events. Detective work is often time-consuming and tedious work, after all. As such, I shall merely sum up the happenings of the seventy-two hours subsequent to that Sunday morning.

Both Holmes and I were in and out of our rooms at all hours, he because of the case and I because of the accursed influenza season that was only just starting to let up. When our schedules did happen to coincide, I found my news was more positive than his. Holmes was scouring the most unsavory parts of London in the hopes that they had been taken under wing by some Fagen-like character. Although kidnapping rings found success in enticing children in the winter with promises of hot meals and warm lodgings, that did not seem to be the fate of the missing girls. Nevertheless, he continued to persevere.

In point of fact, I saw more of the new little Irregulars than of my fellow lodger. Half the time it was I who received the report and doled out pay. The boys too had been thwarted in their efforts. It seemed the girls had veritably fallen off the face of the earth; no one had seen hide nor hair of them. Charlie of the Welsh accent was particularly redoubtable in his opinion that the girls were dead. I firmly instructed him not to pass this opinion on to the rest of his colleagues and certainly not to Holmes.

I knew the outlook was bleak on Tuesday afternoon. I was seated at my desk finishing a report of my own when Holmes thundered up the stairs, unbuttoned the most disreputable sort of coat I have ever laid eyes on, and thrust a slab of cold beef from the sideboard between two slices of bread. He proceeded to tear into this hasty meal without a word to me.

While he ate I took the opportunity to observe him. I daresay I made poorer work of it than he would have should our positions have been reserved. Holmes is a master of disguise and a formidable actor when the fancy strikes him. Even so, the strain of the fruitless search was taking its irrefutable toll. He looked weary and grim though I have known him to exude boundless energy and patience while on the scent. I was uncertain if the dark circles under his eyes were due to makeup or genuine lack of sleep.

Knowing Holmes would speak only if he wished to, I returned my attention to my work. Several minutes passed in silence.

"What news from my unofficial force?"

I saw no need to ask how Holmes knew one of the Irregulars – Edding, I believe was his name – had come by to report. Even I could see the small footprints of dirty dampness left in the rug. "Still nothing."

Holmes struck his fist against the mantle with such force that I feared he might have actually fractured something though he made no indication of feeling any pain. "Watson, I must ask you something that I beg you answer honestly. Presuming the girls are trapped in some environment that provides an adequate air supply and reasonable protection from the cold, what in your medical opinion are the chances that they are still alive?"

I sighed and tried to be both objective and realistic. "They bought a full loaf of bread not quite four days ago. They are young and small. I do not think they are in danger of starving as yet. In that respect, their chances are good. They will, however, be badly dehydrated unless they found access to water or even snow."

He nodded and began to refasten his coat, pausing only when I spoke his name. "Yes?"

"In your opinion, what are the odds they are trapped in such the relatively hospitable environment you described?"

Holmes resumed his task with a black scowl. Only when he was finished did he deign to respond. "Far lower than I should wish." Then he turned and was once again gone.

***

I tried not to think of those last words as a death knell for the children. Holmes had mistakenly thought Neville St. Clair was dead before he uncovered the surprising truth of St. Clair's whereabouts. Nevertheless, I found a depression settling over me as the afternoon progressed into evening.

As darkness deepened, I once again heard the sound of light footsteps coming up the stairs. Expecting one of the Irregulars, I was startled to see a young man of perhaps fifteen panting with exertion and staring about him with desperation. "Are you . . . the doctor?" he gasped out.

Immediately I was on my feet and reaching for my coat. "I am. Take a moment to get your breath, lad, and then we'll go."

He shook his head. "Can't. Sister. Dying. Have to --"

"All right, then. Have we time to get a cab?"

"Not that far. Ran here . . . in five minutes."

I felt my heart sink. People of limited financial means often waited far too long to seek medical attention, until even the most skilled doctor can do nothing to help. Given that the young man and his sister lived so close yet did not seek me out until now, I feared such was the case now. Whatever I could offer in terms of aid would almost certainly be inadequate. Furthermore, while an adolescent male was able to run the distance in five minutes, a middle-aged, fatigued man with a game leg was not. I said as much as gently as I could and received a look of utter contempt in return.

"You won't even _try_?" he demanded, balling his fists in anger.

"Of course I'm going to try," I snapped, catching up my bag of supplies. "But it will take longer than five minutes."

It did indeed take more than five minutes. As it turned out, my guide was not able to go much faster than I, already winded as he was. The temperature plummeted and froze the slush and water on the sidewalks and roads into treacherous grooves. The young man led me down the Baker Street; as I suspected, it was towards the direction of cheaper housing.

At last he stopped at one modest home and pushed open the door without ceremony. He then galloped up the staircase with me in tow and entered the first little room on the left. I beheld a grizzled, unshaved man with red-rimmed eyes seated besides a child's bed, and then caught sight of my patient.

She was very young, about four years old if that, but was so wizened and pinched she looked more like an ancient dwarf than a child. Matted, blonde hair spread across her pillow in thin whorls. The man I presumed was her father sprang to his feet to allow me space but it was already too late. I could detect no rise or fall of her chest nor any coughing or rasping. Closer examination merely confirmed the girl was dead.

I went through the motions of checking, ignoring the desperate questions being put to me. Finally I could delay no longer and gently drew the sheet over the child's wasted face. "I'm sorry," said I, fully aware of how inadequate the words were.

The young man gave a wild cry and dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching the cold little hand that escaped the sheet. His father turned his attention to me.

"She's dead?" he growled, rage blossoming in his eyes. "My little Elsie is dead because you couldn't come sooner? What the devil is the use of calling a doctor if you couldn't help her? And now you'll charge me a full fee for doing absolutely nothing for her!"

It was the shock of the parallel, that the dead girl was the same age my daughter would have been had she lived and that they had such similar names, that prompted me to answer quietly, "No. There will be no charge. I know what it means to lose a child."

Whatever pain it cost me to say, it was effective. The rage left his face to be replaced with a deep sorrow. He nodded slowly and his throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. "Thank you," he murmured and began blinking rapidly.

I took my leave and returned home far more slowly than I had left it. The cold had worsened to the point where the snow squeaked slightly beneath my feet and my breath billowed out in gusts of white. On the verge of an emotional release myself I forced myself to ascend to the sitting room. The action cost me more effort than I cared to acknowledge.

I was distracted from the physical discomfort by the yellow paper of a telegram left in the center of my desk. I had half a mind to pitch it to the fire without looking at it lest it be yet another plea from yet another patient. Fortunately common sense reasserted itself and I found the sender to be Holmes.

_Situation urgent,_ it read. _Missing too long and is far too cold. Come to 9 Bayham immediately._

I sighed, picked up my bag again, and left for Mrs. Lynch's home.


	8. Chapter 8

It was with a heavy heart that I made my way to Mrs. Lynch's room. Having seen Holmes's behavior during this case and read the urgency of his telegram, I could not but think tragedy loomed ahead. I found the walk up the stairs no easier than before; indeed it was harder then before.

I had no sooner tapped on the door – with great reluctance, might I add – than it was wrenched open. It seemed to be a summit of sorts for Mrs. Lynch, half a dozen of the re-banded Irregulars, and my friend were within. Far from his previous demeanor, Holmes's eyes were flashing with excitement and his entire body quivered with suppressed energy.

"Watson! Thank God!" he exclaimed as I entered, veritably springing at me. "No, don't take off your coat; we are leaving immediately. Has the cab you came in driven off already? Blast! We shall have to walk it then. Come along, Watson, we haven't a moment to lose." He seized my shoulder and nearly pushed me back down the stairs. The suddenness of it nearly made me lose my grip on my medical bag.

"Where are we going?" I managed amidst the onslaught of words. Peripherally I noticed we were being shadowed by all but one of the ragged urchins.

"The school, Watson, the school!" Holmes answered, impatiently slipping around me to take the lead. "What other place are they even remotely familiar with but the local charity school?"

"They never attended," I protested as I followed along.

"No, but remember their mother took them to see the school back in autumn."

"Holmes, that was months ago. Provided they could even find their way back, why should they return now?"

"Watson, the motives of women remain inscrutable for me. I cannot be expected to understand what motivates young children. Nevertheless, I am certain it has something to do with their mother's insistence on the importance of education and their father's impending release from prison. Now hurry, Watson. The last thermometer I saw gave a reading that was further below freezing than I should like."

Indeed, our respective breaths swirled about us even as the snowflakes on the wind were doing. Our footing was unsure and the pressure I had felt about my chest the past few days deepened into distinct pain in the presence of the damp, frigid air. The thought of the two little girls out in such weather drove me onward, helping to break a path for the children trailing us.

The school itself was barely acceptable as a building, with a roof that threatened to sag clear off the walls. What was once a connected supply shed looked more like a candidate for kindling, and beyond the little schoolyard in back stood a dilapidating privy. I did not care to reflect on what quality of education it provided. Surprisingly, I could see a faint light coming from within. I did not have the breath to question why anyone would be waiting for us there so long after the end of school hours. Fortunately, Holmes anticipated my question.

"As soon I realized they'd likely gone to the school, I telegraphed Superintendent Fisher to have him open the building for us."

Mr. Fisher seemed genuinely eager to aid us in any way possible, though he looked with askance at the questionable company Holmes and I had brought. I fear the boys did nothing to dissuade worry. Having never set foot inside a school of any sort, they were naturally curious about facet of the institution. Between their exclamations of wonder or derision, and grubby hands nearly causing a mishap with the precariously set globe, precious little work could be done. There was also a question of safety, as lighted candles and active children do not mix well.

"Charlie, take them out back to search the grounds," ordered Holmes at last. "There may be a secret fort or some such thing that the girls stumbled upon." With something akin to war cries, they obeyed and Mr. Fisher breathed a sigh of relief.

"Fortunately they are used to the cold," Holmes muttered to me. "Now, Mr. Fisher, that door in back leads to the supply shed?"

"It does," replied the superintendent even as my friend marched over and wrenched the door open. "But you can see for yourself that even one child would find it hard to remain hidden for long in so cramped a space."

"Yet it is big enough to have still two more doorways," countered Holmes. "This door, I take it, leads to the playground. But this one, with the rusted padlock in pieces on the floor before it, leads where?"

"There is a cellar beneath our feet but it has not been in use since the year after the school opened. It floods something terrible in the spring."

My friend favored Mr. Fisher with a terrible look, seized two candles, and threw open the abandoned door. Fortunately I was close behind Holmes. He pitched forward suddenly with a startled cry and though I was able to pull him back one of the candles went flying in the darkness and guttered out.

"What is it?" the superintendent demanded.

"The top two stairs are broken," Holmes replied, peering down cautiously. "Mr. Fisher, there is a stepping stool back in the school proper, under the window on the right hand. I would be greatly obliged if you would retrieve it for us."

I looked around Holmes into Stygian darkness. "They have been down there all this time?" I asked in horror.

"I fear so. The splintering on the broken stairs indicates a fresh break. That alone would explain how they managed to become trapped. Nobody ventures down there so nobody found them before locking up for the night. Then, of course, they disappeared shortly before school let out for the weekend. By Monday they would be too cold and weak to call for help, let alone to call loudly enough for anyone to hear them."

Mr. Fisher returned with the stool, to which he had attached a length of twine to aid us in lowering and raising it through the whole in the stairs. Once it was in position, Holmes handed his candles to me and carefully lowered himself. "It is a bit of a stretch even for a tall man such as I," remarked he as I returned the candles. "I think it would be best if I continued alone and boost the girls up to you."

I could see the wisdom in this though I disliked the idea. And so we watched from above as the Holmes and his flickering light faded and vanished. His striden voice calling the names of Abigail and Lucy wafted up to us, and sudden went silent. For what seemed an age we stood anxiously until the blackness lightened into gray once more and Holmes returned. In one arm he held a small girl while another, taller girl clung to the elbow of the arm holding the candle.


	9. Chapter 9

With the utmost care, Holmes ascended the first few steps which creaked ominously beneath his feet. Turning, he gave the candle to the taller girl – Abigail, I presumed – who accepted it with both hands, still clad in mittens.

"Mr. Fisher," Holmes called, "I would be much obliged if you would go light a fire in the schoolroom. In the meantime, Watson, I'm going to pass the girls up to you. Make sure they're unharmed. I don't anticipate needed help to climb out of here myself."

I secured my own candles out of the way and knelt as close as I dared to the broken stairway. Holmes whispered something to Lucy, who turned her head from his lapel to look up fearfully at me. Abigail held the candle up higher as Holmes eased one foot onto the stepstool. He shifted Lucy so that she faced me and, leaning forward, I could just grasp her arms above the elbow. It was neither the most practical or comfortable position for any of us. Fortunately, it took only a swift pull up and backward, standing as I did, to draw her out of the cellar entirely.

"Go and tend to her, Watson," Holmes suggested. "Have Mr. Fisher come back here help Abigail out."

I nodded and carried Lucy out of the storage shed into the relative warmth and light of the schoolroom. It was a pleasant surprise to see the superintendent had not stinted on the coal, especially since it was technically school property and to be used during school hours. Briefly I explained that Holmes had need of him and he promptly left to help. Meanwhile, I attempted to set the child on the large teacher's table for examination.

Lucy had my coat in a death grip that I pried off as gently as I could and removed her mittens. I introduced myself as a doctor as simply as I could, to which she replied that she already knew who I was; "Mista Home" had told her. Then she asked how long it would take to get warm again and go home.

I smiled and assured her it wouldn't take long, which was true. Small bodies are more susceptible to cold but conversely they warm up faster. I pulled the table closer to the fire and began a cursory examination. Her fingers and face were chilly and reddened. At my query, Lucy declared that her toes were cold and hurt her. Immediately I began removing her muddy, icy boots to warm her feet.

Lucy was content to leave me to my own devices until Abigail joined her, followed closely by Mr. Fisher and Holmes, respectively. Then excitement at being together and freed from what was in essence a prison got the better of the sisters. It was only by warning them the longer it took to get warm the longer it would take to return home that they settled down to the business of thawing out their limbs.

Holmes did not voice his questions as to their health; a glance their way and raised eyebrows sufficed. In response, I smiled reassuringly. I found no signs of true frostbite and that was half the battle there. Hunger, thirst, and sleepiness would be easy to alleviate.

Taking my permission for granted, Holmes crouched by them without blocking the fire and assumed his most soothing manner. "Can you tell me how you came to be in the cellar?"

Abigail toyed with one of her mittens. "I wanted to see the school again and I had to take Lucy with me because Mama said I have to take care of her."

"Why did you want to see the school again?"

"Because . . . because Mama said maybe when Papa gets out of prison we could go to school for the first time and she said Papa was going to get out of prison very soon and I was so excited I couldn't wait to see it," the child blurted out, eyes still downcast.

"But when you arrived at the school you were not allowed in so you decided to look around by yourselves," Holmes finished kindly.

"The door in the back was open," Lucy put in, "an' we wen' in an' we saw another door and we wen' in but it was dark."

"We just wanted to see what they had in the cellar," continued Abigail. "We went down the stairs but it was just too dark to see. But when we tried to go back up the stairs they broke and we tore our clothes and we couldn't get back up." Tears began to glaze her eyes. "We tried to call for help but nobody came. Nobody came for days and days."

"It sounds like it was very frightening," Holmes replied, "but you were brave and clever. I saw that you tried to fix the stairs and that you kept warm by staying together in that old crate. It was not a good idea to go wandering where you knew you shouldn't go" – here Abigail giggled self-consciously – "but overall you both did well. Now, I am going to find us a cab to take you home. I think, Watson, that by the time I return they will be sufficiently thawed. I shall also alert the Irregulars that they themselves are free to go home and warm up," he added, sotto voice.

I nodded distractedly, a new and troubling thought suddenly occupying my mind. Worry for the fate of the girls had momentarily overrode concern for my own ailments. Now I was all too aware that I was not well. I could not in good conscience expose two young patients with compromised immune systems to whatever pathogen I might be harboring; however, I was the only present physician and one who was willing to forego payment for the sake of the greater good. Mrs. Lynch's finances were such that health care would surely be limited.

I had just determined that keeping a scarf about my face would be reasonably effective at preventing the spread of disease, and girls had become restless with boredom, when Holmes re-entered. A gust of wind and swirl of snow accompanied him.

"We shall have to make haste," reported he. "Conditions are growing worse. Are they about ready to leave? Capital. Mr. Fisher, I thank you for your assistance in this matter. I hope you were not too inconvienced."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," exclaimed Mr. Fisher, shaking my friend's hand with enthusiasm. "I am only glad I was able to help."

"And a great help you were. No, Lucy, wear your mittens too. It is even colder outside than it was in the cellar."

* * *

The reunion of mother and daughters was as joyful and tearful as one might imagine. Mrs. Lynch's anxious face crumpled at the sight of the girls and almost immediately she was on her knees to embrace them both. Quietly Holmes dismissed the last Irregular on the premisis and proceeded to explain what had happened. "We almost died," Lucy added, with that peculiar cheerfulness unique to children once the fear is in the past.

"Don't say such things!" her mother admonished sharply. "Mr. Holmes, I cannot thank you enough. I didn't know what to think when you asked me to draw Miss Pringle out of her rooms for as long as I could tonight."

"A mere precaution," replied he, "and one I am grateful proved fruitless. I am only sorry it took me until tonight to realize where they had gone."

"Oh, no! We are utterly in your debt. You found them and they are alive and well. I don't know that I can pay you right away --"

"Mrs. Lynch," Holmes interrupted, "do not trouble yourself over the matter of fees. I consider this case a reimbursement to your husband, concerning a matter between the two of us. There will be no bill."

The lady hesitated, clearly wanting to argue the point but not wanting to force a confidence. "I will discuss it with Victor," she murmured at last. "He is to be released Friday, you know."

"Yes, I was aware."

Any more conversation between them was dashed by the girls' request for something to eat. This was our cue to leave. As we did so, however, Mrs. Lynch paused and looked at us over her shoulder. "Thank you," she said again, simply and forcefully.

* * *

Were this an account meant for publication, I should end the story there, with Holmes in the role of masterful detective and I the silent admirer. I wish it had ended there. Unfortunately circumstances were to continue in an anxious and emotional vein. The cabbie seemed relieved that we had not made him wait very long for us and I concurred. The weather, as Holmes had said, was worsening by the minute. We rode in a silence punctuated by the irregular little thuds of freezing rain against the roof and windows.

"Did you suspect Miss Pringle even to the last?" I asked finally.

Holmes looked up from the brown study he had fallen into. "I could not be sure that she had not imprisoned the girls somewhere, perhaps in the school. I had Evans slip into her rooms to look around while Mrs. Lynch distracted her. Fortunately it was nothing more than a case of misplaced exuberance and not something more sinister. Forgive me, Watson, but I do not feel much like parsing the intricacies of this case."

"It was a success," I pointed out.

"A success in that the children were found reasonably unharmed," replied he. "The chain of events behind it are less pleasant. They venture to the school in the first place because they had been denied a chance to attend. They were denied a chance to attend because of their father's incarceration. Their father's incarceration . . . " Holmes stopped himself suddenly and settled back with a sigh.

I repressed a sigh of my own. There was no point to tell Holmes that whatever guilt he harbored over Victor Lynch's crimes was misplaced, and the guilt he appeared to be assuming over the disappearance of Victor's daughter was doubly so. For one, my friend would dismiss it. For another, it was all too apparent to me that what I had been suffering from for the past few days was not a simple case of fatigue and would not dissipate after some much-needed rest.


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes silent paid the cabby, who was more than happy to drive off once the transaction was complete. I did not blame the man in the least. It was an unspeakable relief to walk in the front door and shed our snowy outer wear. I could not be sure but given the uncharacteristic flush on Holmes's cheeks, his face and hands were just as chilled as mine. But then, sodden wool loses much of it preserve warmth.

"I'm glad to see my telegram arrived not long before you did," Holmes commented as I hung up my coat. "Though I am sorry about your patient."

"How did you -- " I stopped speaking, unable to continue, but at least I was able to repress a wince. I was grateful that Holmes seemed to noticed nothing out of ordinary concerning my speech pattern.

"The simplest answer is that you arrived not very long after I sent the telegram. Your coat is far more saturated than mine so obviously you were out immediately before going to Bayham Street. You brought your medical bag with you at that time, as evidenced by the wetness of the leather. As for your patient, you had an expression of sorrow that was not entirely masked by concern. I flatter myself that my telegram was of no cause for sorrow, ergo your expression was due to the outcome for your patient."

"Quite right," I murmured.

He clapped a hand lightly on my shoulder. "I daresay it was through no fault of your own, Watson. Now, then. We have a successful case behind us and a warm fire waiting for us. That, a comfortable chair, and a glass of brandy are my prescription for you tonight."

I appreciated the sentiment but I rather doubted the effectiveness of his treatment as I looked up that familiar staircase to our sitting room. Holmes once told me how many steps made up that particular stairway. I believe the number was seventeen, though for a brief moment that stairway could have had seventeen thousand, so insurmountable it seemed. I summoned what fortitude I could and began the ascent.

I forced myself to keep going despite the exertion. Even so, Holmes was already in the sitting room and filling his pipe by the time I entered. I shut the door behind me and braced myself against it with one hand. It was incredible that one simple stairway could have left me so winded and exhausted. Of course, the pain needling me with every breath gave an indicator as to why this was. Each deep inhalation I took was agony but I could not catch my breath quickly enough by breathing shallowly.

I realized I was panting futilely, gasping in unsatisfying amounts of air. My head, already pounding, began to swim. I held my ribs tightly but the pain continued. It did not make breathing any easier either. Vaguely I was aware of my hand skidding down the door as I could no longer keep my feet.

I heard a sharp crack and a shout, and then Holmes was by my side, gripping my arms. I know without a doubt that had he not been there supporting me I should have collapsed completely. As it was, I could scarcely perform the simple act of breathing on my own. Fortunately Holmes understood now was not the time to put questions to me. Eventually, with excruciating slowness, the gasps became less frantic and more regulated. My breathing was, though still painful, at least adequate once again. Finally I was able to lift my head and sit back on my heels.

Holmes still held me in his grasp. His gaze was piercing and his face was set. "What is it?" he demanded in a low voice.

"Pleurisy, I think. Feels like it." It was the only diagnosis I knew of that could account for my particular set of symptoms.

"That is a respiratory illness. An inflammation of the lungs?"

"Membrane around the lungs," I corrected.

"In any event, it is not something that arises overnight."

"Not usually, no."

There was a pause. I knew what questions Holmes was silently asking me though I hesitated to answer. At last I sighed faintly. "It's been only a day or two."

"You should have said something before this!" he growled. "I would not have subjected you to this sort of weather if I had known you were ill. Nor should you have been subjecting yourself to this weather either. You do not inspire confidence in your medical abilities with such behavior."

His anger was born of concern, I tried to remind myself. "Even if I had had the chance to tell you, it was not very serious before now."

"How serious is it now?" retorted Holmes. Immediately he pressed a hand to my brow and then scowled at the futility of the gesture. He had forgotten fever cannot be accurately discerned from frost-nipped fingers. Moreover, I was still too chilled to know myself if I had a rise in temperature. Failing that, he got to his feet. "I'm going for a doctor."

"Not in this weather!" I protested. "Holmes, it isn't critical enough for that." He glanced down at me, still on the floor, and raised a skeptical eyebrow. Irritated, I stood as well, with a little effort.

"Yes, I overexerted myself. I admit that was foolish. I shall probably be quite miserable for the next week or so but I brought it on myself. I won't have you risking your own life in this weather for something that I myself can safely treat here."

"And how do you propose to treat this pleurisy?"

There was in his tone a hint of derision that I could not help but answer. "Morphine, for one. Cool clothes laid on the painful side. Compression and perhaps iodide of potassium if it becomes worse. I do have a supply of both medications here. Cool clothes are easy to come by."

Holmes folded his arms and looked away for a moment. I waited for him to reach his decision. At last he turned back to me. "If it becomes worse I am going for a doctor with or without your consent, iodide of potassium and compression notwithstanding."

It was a logical course of action and I accepted it as such. "_If_ it should come to that, you have my preemptive consent. In fact, I recommend Jackson; he bought my old practice in Paddington."

"Do you anticipate it growing much worse?" Holmes asked, more gently. My acquiescence in the matter had clearly been effective in diffusing most of his anger, for which I was relieved.

"It may," I answered honestly, "but I don't expect it will become dangerous."

"I meant what I said about going for a doctor."

"I know. As did I."

Holmes nodded and retrieved his pipe, frowning at the small chip that had appeared in the stem. I realized he must have slammed it down when I collapsed and vowed to have it repaired as soon as I could. For the time being, I was more than ready to retire for the night. Slowly I crossed the sitting room.

"You are welcome to take my room for the duration of the illness," Holmes called from behind me.

"No. If I am contagious I do not want you exposed to it any more than necessary." Whatever other concessions I made, on that point I would hold firm. "That goes for Mrs. Hudson as well."

"That you will have to take up with her. More immediately, you had difficulties enough with the stairs to the sitting room," pointed out Holmes, maddeningly reasonable. "Did you not just say that overexerting yourself in that manner was foolish?"

I was too weary to argue or to maintain politeness. "One more episode of foolishness tonight will not kill me," I snapped, and made my way up to my bedroom.

******

_The sodden woolens and Watson's drenched coat is a direct nod to Sarince, who brought up the topic_

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

The restful night I had anticipated was a sad disappointment. No matter how I cocooned myself under blankets I could not get warm. Lying on my left side helped the rib pain but aggravated the old wound in my shoulder. Finally, when I did start to doze I wakened myself with the sounds of rasping whenever I breathed. By morning I was tired, pained, feverish, and quite ready to shy whatever projectile was closest to hand at Holmes when he entered my room and asked how I was feeling.

"I am not yet recovered, if that's what you're asking," I answered with what even I knew was unwarranted petulance.

"I am sorry to hear that even if I had not expected you to be," Holmes replied calmly. "Disregard the question, then; I can deduce the answer myself. You do not sound at all like yourself."

"Pleurisy affects the resonance of the voice."

"I was referring to the uncharacteristic crossness you are currently displaying but yes, I had noted that too. Actually, Mrs. Hudson wished me to ask if you wanted any breakfast."

"Not now, thank you." Whatever appetite I might have possessed was submerged beneath a more pressing desire for sleep, or at least some sort of rest.

"If you wait much longer it will be luncheon. It is closing on ten o'clock."

"That's fine."

Holmes gave a small snort. "I think you underestimate the difficulties of playing emissary between our determined landlady and your self-imposed quarantine. She is an excellent woman in most things but I think she is inclined to ignore the addage about killing the messenger. Show a little mercy for your fellow man."

"Tell her what you will then." Though I did not know how effective my efforts to rebuff Mrs. Hudson's efforts would be. I might have better luck with Holmes; he prided himself on being logical, after all.

Holmes gave me a crooked smile. "No interest in food at all? You _have_ had a rough night of it, haven't you?"

"Frankly, yes."

He glanced at my medical bag on the floor, left open with key supplies closest to the top. "Has the morphine helped?"

"Some."

"And the fever?"

"Around 101.5." (1)

"I see." Suddenly Holmes seized the secretary chair from the small desk and dragged it over to the bed. "Watson, I took the liberty of borrowing some of your medical texts last night. I researched pleurisy. I do not mean to question your judgment but I could not help notice some discrepancies between your symptoms and the so-called classic ones."

"The detective turns diagnostician?" I asked, amused despite myself.

"Based on my recent experience, there is precious little difference between the two. Save, of course, the particular field of profession. Seriously now, are you quite sure there is nothing more to this? The text said pleurisy is often secondary to other sorts of respiratory infections."

"_Often_ secondary," I repeated firmly.

"While I will agree that compromising your constitution for weeks on end probably contributed to the state you are in, I cannot think you fall under the category of 'alcoholic,' " retorted Holmes.

"Thank you, Holmes," said I dryly.

"That brings me to my second point. Pleurisy often has a dry cough and you . . . "

"Have none at all," I agreed. "Thank God." If breathing hurt I could only imagine the agony that coughing would bring. "But Holmes, diseases do not always match to the letter their descriptions. There is a reason we use the term 'textbook case.'"

"Well, I shall bow to your opinion in the matter then," sighed Holmes, rising and returning the chair to its proper place. To my surprise, however, he did not leave immediately but rather crossed to the fireplace and began adding more fuel. I had not realized how long the fire had gotten but as I was the one who had been negligent, it was my responsibility to look after it.

"You needn't do that," I protested.

I received a dark look as an answer. Nor did Holmes stop what he was doing. When the fire was stoked to his satisfaction, he replaced the coal shovel with an impatient flourish and a loud clatter. "I'll convey your message to Mrs. Hudson. Do try to keep from freezing in the meantime."

* * *

The rest of the day as well as the next passed in an unpleasant haze broken into segments by Mrs. Hudson's persistence with broth and bread, intermittent chills and fever, and a few more reluctant injections of morphine. I have heard it said that doctors make the worst of patients. While I sincerely hope I did not live up to that prediction, I suspect it was only due to my vehement desire to stay sequestered that I did not grate on the nerves of my co-habitants more than I already was. One could only spend so many hours asleep, even when ill, and listless boredom began to prey on me.

Then too was Holmes's subtle, constant checking up on my condition. I found myself on the defensive, explaining that even if my temperature had risen to 102 and there was a more pronounced rattle upon inhalation, it did not mean the pleurisy was growing worse. In came down to the point where we held an argument punctuated by verbatim quotes from the medical text Holmes had "borrowed" from me. At long last he was forced to concede that my lack of cough and lack of growing pleural effusion (2) were welcomed signs.

That did not mean he gave in willingly. I knew Victor Lynch was to be released from prison the next day and that Holmes had seriously considered attending with his former protegee's family. I also knew that the pleurisy plaguing me had raised doubts for him as to whether he should leave Baker Street or not.

It was fortunate I had won the debate on Thursday because by Friday morning I was feeling a change for the worse. The shortness of breath and pressure about my chest had increased and I was fairly certain the fever had risen. Nevertheless, I knew it would be therapeutic for Holmes and Victor Lynch to meet once more. I would not be the factor that kept this reunion from happening. Sternly I ordered Holmes to leave for the prison. To my surprise, he obeyed, albeit with a few sardonic remarks and an apathetic manner.

Once Holmes had left, I set about evaluating my condition. The fever had indeed risen to just under 103. Moreover, I did not like to speculate as to why I was experiencing such pain and dyspnea when I continued to display relatively few signs of effusion around my left lung. Then, too, I did not know what to make of the lack of cough. Finally I put aside conjecture in favor of necessity and prepared a dose of potassium iodide.

* * *

(1) UPDATE: According to the book _Pneumonia: Its Causes, Forms, and Treatments_ by Octavius Sturges and Sidney Coupland, published in London in 1890, the Fahrenheit thermometer was used in medicine in Victorian England. For the metric users out there, 101.3 F is about 38.5 C.

(2) Effusion is an accumulation of excessive fluid. Pleural effusion is an accumulation of fluid between the pleural membrane and the lung, creating friction. (Hence the reason inhaling hurts like heck when you have pleurisy.) Dyspnea is difficulty breathing. . . . I read medical records at work; does it show?

_Yet another author's note: concerning the roots of this story (KCS's "A Battle" and "Blinking") yes, all will be explained. Watson's *present* lack of coughing included. _

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

_The following is in Holmes's POV. I may switch back to Watson in later chapters but I haven't decided yet. Also, Fahrenheit was the norm through the Victorian era on both sides of the Atlantic, so here's a conversion scale: _

_37 C – 98.6 F / 38 C – 100.4 F / 39 C – 102.2 F / 40 C – 104 F / 41C -105.8 F / 42 C – 107.6 F_

* * *

I stood outside the prison gates, indulging in a cigarette despite being in the company of a lady and children. I was abstaining from tobacco at Baker Street until Watson was recovered. He complained of the shag's smoke often enough when well. Fortunately the weather had relented and it felt nearly balmy though technically the mercury stood below freezing.

Abigail and Lucy had greeted me with powerful embraces, all but knocking me off my feet. Clearly they were no worse for wear after their ordeal. Mrs. Lynch, too, had shed the artificial years that fear had laid on her. Indeed, with glowing eyes, flushed cheeks, and hopeful smile she might have been the girls' older sister and not their mother.

Actually, I was surprised at her presence. It was not her lack of dedication to her husband that I doubted; it was that I knew by rights she ought to have been in the sewing room of Paxton's Department Store. It was mid-morning on a week day after all. Nor could I see her quitting her position. As an eminently practical woman, surely she knew finances would be precarious even with Victor released. He was not likely to find employment right away with his past.

"I've been terminated," she cheerfully volunteered when I brought up the subject. "Effective immediately. I told them last night that I would not be in today and they told me I needn't bother coming back at all."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she answered passionately. "I despised it there. Paid a pittance for hours of eye-straining labor . . . I know it will be rough going in the future with neither of us employed but at least we will all be together again."

I flicked away the spent butt of my cigarette and made no answer. I could appreciate the sentiment even if I thought it foolishly naïve. A veritable pair of babes in the woods they would be. I wondered what, if anything, could be done to minimize the hardships. Certainly no antiques dealer or bibliophile would hire Victor again. Not as a clerk at any rate. But perhaps . . .

Lucy interrupted my train of thought with a plaintive query as to what her father looked like. I could not believe this was her first time asking it but I did not blame her. Lucy had never know Victor; he had been two months into his sentence before she was born. Even Abigail surely had a memory or two of him, infant though she had been.

My suspicions were confirmed when Mrs. Lynch crouched down with a smile. "I've told you hundreds of times, love. Suppose you tell me what you know."

"He's taller than you but not as tall as Mr. Holmes and he has brown eyes like me and red hair like Abby," the girl replied dutifully.

I could not remain silent any longer. "His nose looks like Abigail's but his smile is like yours." Lucy giggled and looked pleased. "But I don't think he will be very healthy or strong right away. His face will probably be white and he will be very thin."

"As thin as you?" asked Lucy before her mother could stifle her and apologize unnecessarily.

"As thin as me or thinner," I confirmed solemnly. It was not called "hard labor" for nothing; carrying cannonballs and turning cranks were not stimulating occupations but they certainly took a high toll on the body. After five years of such toil, men were inevitably broken or battered. I had a sudden image of Victor Lynch at age ten among his fellow Irregulars back on Montague Street, and I felt physically ill.

The feeling dissipated not a jot as the gates opened and a man shambled through them. He was, as Lucy had said, not as tall as I with light auburn hair just starting to grey. The clothes he wore were a few years behind in fashion and hung on his spare frame. He was pallid with sunken eyes and a sharp, angular face. Nevertheless, I recognized him immediately.

So did Mrs. Lynch. She made a pitiful noise like a mourning dove, hand pressed against her throat. At the sound, Victor's eyes lit up and he caught his breath. "Emily!" he cried hoarsely and then spoke no more, as he was occupied by embracing his wife as though his life depended upon it.

I quietly kept the girls from intruding until at last they parted, both with tears upon their faces. Mrs. Lynch gestured for the girls to join them, which they did eagerly. Heedless of the snow, Victor knelt and took both daughters into his arms, peering at their faces as if to ingrain them in his mind.

I waited until Victor stood with Lucy in his arms, Abigail clinging to his coat on one side and his wife at his elbow on the other. Only then did I approach.

The hope and joy in his face faded and his eyes widened. "Mr. Holmes!" he gasped out.

"Hullo, Victor," I replied gently. I extended my hand and he lowered Lucy to the ground in order to take it.

"What brings you here?" faltered he.

"You do."

"I see." He glanced to the ground and back to me. "You're disappointed in me. I shouldn't blame you. There hasn't been a day these past five years when I didn't disgust myself. I can only say that I'm sorry and that there is no excuse I can offer for my actions."

"Victor," I interrupted, "I did not come here to remonstrate. I came to apologize for any negligence on my part that may have led to your unfortunate choices."

The young man gaped at me as though I had begun speaking Chinese. "Negligence? You?" he managed. "Mr. Holmes, if not for your employment of us Irregulars I know I would have come to a far worse end than this far before now. My choices were my choices for good or ill and I take full responsibility for them. It was you who guided me to my first job and it was I who ruined my chances."

"Perhaps they are not yet ruined," said I cautiously. "A man who knows to how detect art forgery is a valuable commodity in the right circles. And a man who has created forgeries not only knows how forgeries are created, he knows what distinguishes them from authentic pieces. I think, if you are willing, that such a position might be found for you."

Victor went very still at my words. "If what you say is true . . . Mr. Holmes, I am at a loss for words. I shall never be able to thank you enough."

"Then I suggest you do not try," I answered breezily. "Go, return to your family. You have been separated quite long enough."

* * *

I was in an introspective mood upon my return to Baker Street and at loose ends on what to do about it. I had abandoned narcotics during my hiatus from London out of sheer impracticality and inaccessibility. I had had no reason to take them up again since my return and so even if I possessed the inclination I lacked the supplies.

I considered briefly and rejected my pipe. I hadn't gotten around to repairing the chip, for one. For another, there was the issue of the resulting smoke. No, it would have to be the violin. Normally I favor Germanic composers in such a mood but that moment I found myself drawn to _Sonata in E Minor - Largo_. It may have been written for the cello but I did not think the composer would begrudge my violin. He might, however, have taken exception to the variations I quickly lapsed into.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted only once to ask if I was going to have any luncheon. I declined, and she made some comment about saving on the grocery bills with tenants who would not eat. Immediately I demanded she explain.

"It is simple enough," retorted she. "Neither you nor the doctor have had breakfast and now neither of you are having lunch. Shall I assume this will continue into supper as well?"

"Watson hasn't eaten today?" I repeated in some alarm.

"He had some tea earlier," Mrs. Hudson admitted, "but that won't sustain an ill man." Anything else she said I missed as I was already dashing up the stairs to Watson's room.


	13. Chapter 13

The curtains in his room were pulled closed but enough sunlight filtered through them that I could plainly make out my friend curled in on himself beneath a good amount of blankets. He appeared to be asleep though how restful a sleep I could not tell.

I could not help but note that his medical supplies were still close at hand, with not only morphine but potassium iodide and quinine resting on his nightstand. There was also a thermometer, a small notepad, and pencil. He had been fastidiously recording his fluctuating temperature all day. It was not encouraging news. The lowest reading was 103.6; the highest, 105 exactly. The last entry, an hour ago, was back down to 103.9.

"Watson?" I asked, uneasy. He appeared more flushed than before and I thought I could detect a decided rattle in his breathing. When I grasped his shoulder to gently shake him awake I could feel how much higher his fever had become. When at last he stirred, my worry grew. It took him a moment to recognize me and even then his eyes remained glazed.

"How is Victor?" was his first question.

"He will be fine, I think. He has his family again and that is something. I am more concerned about you. How are you feeling?"

"How the girls?" Watson persisted, ignoring my question.

"Perfectly sound without the faintest trace of a sniffle. The same cannot be said of Miss Pringle, who I hear has contracted a rather vicious and trying head cold," I added with a bit of malicious glee.

"Then it is a splendid day all around," he agreed without any sense of irony, given his bed-ridden condition. Then he paused with a puzzled look. "Holmes, I must ask: were you playing Vivaldi earlier?"

"Yes. Did I disturb you?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm glad to hear it was you. I've had that refrain running through my mind for ages now. I cannot seem to shake it. You would think the brain could control the brain a bit better."

Something about that phrase chilled me. There was something not entirely lucid-sounding to it. "How long have you been like this?"

"Plagued by music?"

"Wheezing and delirious!" I snapped, and immediately withdrew. Anger would only be counterproductive here. Even so, I would not be left in the dark until something drastic happened a second time.

Watson gave me a looked mixed amusement and exasperation that he seemed to reserve solely for me. "I'm not delirious. If I were I would not be able to tell if this was reality or fantasy. I was half-asleep while you were playing. The music worked its way into a dream, that is all."

"But you _are _wheezing," I pointed out. "Besides that, Mrs. Hudson has told me you haven't eaten today."

"I'm sorry; I didn't realize you alone were reserved the right to miss a meal."

"Do not be glib, Watson," I admonished sternly, though I was relieved to see he retained his pawky sense of humor. "You know full well that you need nourishment now more than ever if for no other reason than to stay hydrated."

"Hydration is what the tea and broth was for."

"Mrs. Hudson did not mention the broth," I grudgingly admitted.

"Literally speaking, one does not eat broth; one drinks it," he pointed out. "Perhaps she made that distinction."

"Be that as it may . . ."

"Holmes," sighed Watson, shifting into a more comfortable position, "I am not trying to hamper recovery, I assure you. If I did, I would not have consumed the broth I had no appetite for in the first place," he added almost inaudibly.

I felt my eyes narrow. "You _have_ declined, then. How bad is it?"

"Holmes."

"_How bad_?"

Watson sighed and shifted again. This time I caught a faint rustling I hadn't heard the first time. "You've bound your ribs with canvas muslin!" I exclaimed. "Why?"

"Compression eases pain," he muttered, reluctantly. "I believe I already told you about that."

"Yes. You also told me what would necessitate such treatment. Watson, I may have no formal medical training but grant me a small bit of credit. The pain is worse. Your breathing is worse. The fever is much worse. What other conclusion am I to draw?"

"Haven't you said the obvious conclusion is not always the correct one?" he asked, smiling wryly. Watson might not be willing to admit it but we both knew I was right. He was merely stalling. That also begged the question of what else I might be correct about that he was not telling me. I thought I might have an idea about that.

"Are you sure this illness is pleurisy?" I pressed, not without some sympathy. "I know we have argued over it already but these symptoms strike me as too incompatible with your original diagnosis."

"There is pleurisy," Watson insisted flatly. "I was not wrong about that. But there may be something else as well. Perhaps it's secondary to the pleurisy; I don't know."

I could appreciate what it cost him to say that. I took no pleasure in my partial victory, not only because it was galling for a doctor to admit to misdiagnosing himself but because it meant there truly was something seriously wrong with my friend.

"I am going for Dr. Jackson now," I told him. "Kindly refrain from arguing; if you recall, you already gave your consent for this course of action back on Tuesday night."

I watched a protest start and die without him giving voice to it. "Go if you must, then," he replied without enthusiasm. It was as close to an objection as he was able to offer and I found myself paradoxically cheered by it. I did not like to speculate on how bad off Watson had to be before he offered no protest whatsoever.

* * *

I may have had an excellent reason for being absent-minded but for me it was not enough of an excuse to be within mere inches of knocking on the door of what used to be Dr. Jackson's practice before I recalled that he had purchased Watson's practice when Watson had moved to Kensington. Not that I blamed Jackson. Watson's had been the better of the two practices. Of course, there would have been some initial confusion with patients automatically approaching the old location but in the end it was a good decision on Jackson's part. Signs of brisk activity were everywhere.

I pounded vigorously upon the door and was greeted by the maid. Briefly I explained that I did not have an appointment and that I desperately needed to see the doctor immediately. She looked askance at a man with what obviously was a healthy set of lungs but announced me.

Dr. Jackson started in surprise at my entrance and offered me a chair. He had what I was beginning to think of as "physician exhaustion" spread across his features but he still looked more rested than Watson had looked for the past fortnight.

"Are you ill, Mr. Holmes?" he asked hesitantly, as well he might. I was probably the healthiest person to walk into his consulting room in months. Besides which, if I were the one ill why should I journey across London when the nearest medico lived a mere few feet from my bedroom?

"No, not I. I am sorry I must ask you to venture out not fifteen minutes after you have just returned. At least this time I can offer you a cab and spare you the discomfort of another frigid mud puddle."

"How did you know – No, tell me later," replied he, showing a welcomed sense of propriety. He rose and began donning the winter clothing that had afforded me the material for my deductions. "Who is it that needs a doctor?"

"Watson."

Jackson paused with his scarf not yet around his neck. "I see. Well, what are the symptoms?" Feeling a sudden burst of empathy for my clients, I related to the best of my knowledge the timeline of the illness (or perhaps illnesses?) and provided as many details as I could as to the symptoms. I was still talking as the cab rattled its way to Baker Street.

"He thought it was pleurisy," I finished.

Jackson smiled wryly. "I don't doubt that it was, at least at first. It sounds like the pleurisy was the primary complaint and whatever is causing the high fever is secondary. It is rare to have pleurisy develop first but not unheard of. How is the cough?"

"Nonexistant."

He started a second time. "Truly? None at all?"

"No, none. I should think we would have noticed by now," I retorted. "Why?"

"It's just that it is a trifle unusual to have a respiratory infection with no cough," explained he, brow furrowed. "Perhaps it . . . well. It is a mistake to theorize without data, as you say, Mr. Holmes. But it certainly is tempting."

I was politely banned from the examination with something about respecting a patient's privacy. I waited in the sitting room, succumbing to a desperate craving for tobacco that was only partly assuaged by the mildest cigarettes I possessed.

At long last Jackson returned. The grave look on his face spoke volumes. I crushed out my current cigarette – my fifth, I believe – and bounded across the room to him. "What is it?" I demanded harshly.

Jackson drew a deep breath. "He has acute pneumonia."

* * *

_Before I get bombarded with "How can Watson have pneumonia when he's not coughing?" let me assure you that that will be addressed right away in the next chapter. Stay tuned! _


	14. Chapter 14

"Pneumonia," I repeated, incredulous. "Are you quite sure?"

"I am positive. A man cannot have rales like that in his lungs and not have pneumonia. Watson didn't realize it at first because the pleurisy masked the earliest symptoms. That, and the percussive dullness is best heard with the stethescope pressed to the back, which is all but impossible to perform on one's self. "

I paused, absorbing that information. Even so, there was one detail left unaccounted for. "How the devil can he have pneumonia without also having a cough?"

"That is what is making this a more serious case," replied Jackson slowly. "Usually in pneumonia the infection is located in the upper lobes of the lung, near the bronchi. The infection irritates the bronchi and stimulates coughing. If the infection is in the central or lower lobes, away from the bronchi --"

"The bronchi are not stimulated and no cough is produced," I finished. "Why is that a problem?"

"Coughing is beneficial; it breaks up the secretions and helps to clear the respiratory tract. Otherwise the infection . . . settles. And spreads. In Watson's case the infection began low and is spreading upward." Jackson stopped and ran a hand through his hair. "To be perfectly frank, Mr. Holmes, I've never seen a case of pneumonia like this and I've no clue how he could have contracted it. Which is not to say I know nothing about it," he hastened to add before I could respond. "It's rare, very rare, but similar cases have been documented."

I forced down a surge of panic. Fear only clouds the mind and I needed now more than ever to be rational and calm. "If this pneumonia is so different from other types, how is it to be treated?"

"Essentially I prescribe the regimen I would for any other type of pneumonia. It is also the same regimen Watson has already been following: keeping the fever within safe limits, under 105, and staying as comfortable and pain-free as possible. Most pneumonias last anywhere from a week to ten days before crisis and recovery. I see no reason why this one should differ. That means it will be at least another four days before we see any change. I'm sorry I cannot give you a more precise timeline; the pleurisy makes it hard to judge."

"What about the lack of cough?" I persisted. "If I understand you correctly that is presently the most dangerous symptom, or lack thereof."

"It is," Jackson admitted. "There are plenty of remedies to soothe coughing but to induce it . . ." He trailed off, frowning in concentration. I waited with impatience. I did not mean to badger him but if he was out of his depth with Watson's illness he had to tell me. I would think no less of him or his skills. Indeed, it is a wise man that knows and accepts his limits.

"Hyssop tea," Jackson said suddenly, brightening. "I'd forgotten all about it. And tuber-root tea as well. The latter is more effective but harder to come by. Strictly speaking, they do not cause cough but they are expectorants. They should help."

"And if they don't?"

I thought I had modulated my voice to that of an objective, rational reasoner. Obviously I failed. Jackson gave me a most knowing, sympathetic look. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he advised gently.

* * *

An hour or so later I tapped on Watson's door with Jackson's prescription of hyssop tea. Mrs. Hudson had reluctantly agreed that since the etiology of the pneumonia was still unknown, it was best to err on the side of caution and stay away. I had already been exposed to whatever the pathogen was.

There was no answer to my knock and I entered. It was a breach of privacy, perhaps, but I had the best of reasons. Our landlady would likely assault me if I returned to her kitchen without having fulfilled my mission.

Watson appeared to be sleeping so I decided to leave him the tea for later. The cup rattled slightly on the saucer as I slid it onto the little table and he stirred and blinked. It was only a light doze, then. I should have hated to disturb him from a more restful sleep.

Watson looked no better than he had earlier. I had not expected him to – indeed, Jackson confirmed he would worsen before he began to recover – but it was still disheartening. "How are you feeling?"

"Rather like a poorly done roast."

"I beg your pardon?" If this was delirium . . .

"Scorched on the surface and ice cold at the core," he clarified, with a wry twist of a smile. "But don't tell Mrs. Hudson I made such an analogy. She might take it as an oblique criticism of her cooking."

Outwardly I smiled, both at the aptness of the comparison and his foresight concerning our landlady. Inwardly I was drawing conclusions as rapidly as I could. He did not want Mrs. Hudson to know how bad off he was. I could honor that decision, for the time being. More immediately, it was obvious he was having severe chills. "There are some spare blankets if you want."

He shook his head. "Wouldn't be of much help but thank you. What is that? It smells like camphor." His gaze had settled on the cup on the table which was still sending up scented steam.

"It is hyssop, Jackson's supplement to the standard prescription. I understand Mrs. Hudson added has added honey to it so it should be palatable. But you are right about the smell. May I say, I do not envy you having to drink it."

Watson raised his eyes to me, silently acknowledged that I was teasing him, and looked back at the cup. "Hyssop," he repeated, sounding faintly incredulous. "Why on earth – oh. Meant as an expectorant?"

"Indeed. Is there some secret class doctors take in half-forgotten herbal lore? Both you and Jackson seem well-versed in the virtues of this particular plant."

Watson shifted into more of a sitting position and took up the tea. "It is no secret. It is simply that if a remedy works as well as a pharmaceutical with as few unpleasant side-effects, why not use it? Mmmph." This last noise was accompanied by a half-suppressed grimace, Watson having taken a mouthful of the tea.

"Is it that terrible?" I asked, not without sympathy. I was but half teasing when I said I did not envy him that particular remedy.

"It is that hot," he responded, inhaling through his mouth to cool it.

I moved to get him a glass of water from the carafe across the room. "Well, there a bright side to that," I mused aloud, returning. "A burnt tongue is less likely to perceive cripplingly bitter flavors."

"You might want to keep the water over there," cautioned Watson.

"Why?"

"Because after that comment, I may just decide to throw it at you." The faint smile contradicted the threat. I took no offense. However ill he might feel, Watson still retained his buoyant good humor and that encouraged me beyond words. I took my chances by leaving the water within arm's reach. Watson toasted me with the much-mocked tea and with an expression best suited to reciting the St. Crispin's Day speech, took another and more cautious sip.

* * *

_Yes, it is absolutely possible to have pneumonia without having a cough, even today and for the same reasons Jackson relates. Today it's easier to diagnose because of x-rays and there are machines that will induce coughing._

My sources (thank you, Google scanned books):

-- "Atypical Case of Lobar Pneumonia", Jan. 1917

-- "Frequency, Prognosis, and Treatment of Lobar Pneumonia in Infants and Children", 1905

-- "Natural History and Relations of Pneumonia", 1890

-- 1911encyclopedia. org, "Pleurisy"

_And before I forget, "tuber-root" is also known as "orange milkweed," "butterfly weed," and appropriately enough, "pleurisy root." _


	15. Chapter 15

_I meant to say it before, but Watson's line about "Splendid day" from 2 chapters back was unashamedly stolen from Granada's SOLITARY. Alas, I cannot take credit for it._

******

Watson's seemingly endless good humor underwent a bit of trial Friday night into Saturday morning, which I discovered only after it was too late. It was nothing serious, Watson assured me faintly, only a spike in fever and a resulting inability to sleep soundly. Around six in the morning the fever had dropped back to tolerable levels and he had been able to get some rest. The implication, which Watson left for me to deduce, was that he had only been granted two hours of decent sleep before I disturbed him with inane questions as to how he was feeling.

Thus chastised, I apologized and left post-haste to warn Mrs. Hudson not to disturb him either. She took some initial exception to my news that neither tea nor soup would be required at this time. Fortunately, she agreed that the need for rest outweighed the need for nourishment.

From there I betook myself away for a few hours. There was no purpose or diversion at Baker Street to occupy me. Common courtesy forbade me the use of my violin or tobacco, and any chemical experiment I might have put my hand to ran the risk of creating a less than soothing atmosphere. In any event, I could be of more use to that which some call the good of mankind if I left. I had, thanks to a case that my biographer shall never publish for discretion's sake, a contact or within both the esteemed establishments of Sotheby's and Christie's auction houses. It was to these facilities I went now to lobby on behalf of Victor Lynch's behalf. Should I fail there, there were numerous smaller dealers I might approach but I had confidence in Victor's skills and my reputation.

It was much as I expected: initial disbelief, outrage, and doubt on their side; cool logic and calm persuasion on mine. I could not secure an outright agreement concerning Victor's employment but in the end each auction house did deign to agree to meet with him at his earliest convenience.

Flush with victory, I went relay the news to Victor himself. Miss Pringle, I was spitefully glad to see, was still laid up with a most trying cold. I was less glad to see that Victor appeared to be suffering a similar affliction. For a single instance I was thoroughly annoyed with the universe for surrounding me with illness. Then common sense reasserted itself and I recalled my mission.

His eyes shone with more than fever when I told him he had interviews with both Christie's and Sotheby's. Mrs. Lynch gasped aloud and found an immediate need to sink into chair. "Mr. Holmes, how on earth . . . How can we ever – "

I could not allow her to continue in that vein. "My concern is this unexpected head cold. I must tell you, both facilities would be pleased to have a reason to show you the door. Do not let them have any reason."

Victor was still smiling, regardless. "I shall not, Mr. Holmes. I am confident that I shall be back to health within the week, especially if Emily's dedication to that cause so far has been any indication."

"You have always had my support and dedication, Victor," she replied sincerely, grasping his hand. "I – " Suddenly she gasped again and the soft love-light in her face was replaced by a furrowed brow. "I must get to work on your best suit!" said she with determination. "It wants taking in."

I found myself smiling at the practicality of the lady. I am not normally an admirer of the fairer sex but every now and then one of their numbers will catch me off guard. Victor would recover his health indeed if his wife had any say in the matter, which she most assuredly did. Perhaps when her work on Bayham Street was finished, I might be able to hire her for services over on Baker Street. It was this last thought that propelled me home to see how the resident patient was faring.

I put the question to Mrs. Hudson upon my return and she answered, in a surprisngly distracted manner, that last she knew Watson was awake. There was, however, a man in the sitting room who was most insistent upon seeing the doctor. She had done her best to explain that "the doctor was indisposed," thus preserving a little of Watson's privacy, but the man would have none of it and had refused to leave until he had spoken with the doctor himself.

The rude fellow had come directly from Marylebone, where he was a day labourer. He was a widower who had recently lost another loved one, ate often at the local pasty shop near his place of employment, favored cheroot tobacco, and had just received his week's wages today. He was also sitting in my chair.

"I understand you wish to see Dr. Watson," I began.

Immediately he bounded to his feet. "That's right, sir, and I've been waiting near an hour to do so!"

"You have been told the doctor is currently indisposed."

"Yes, and not a one of you has told me what you mean by that. Is he out? Is he busy? What is it?"

"It means he is not able to receive you today. However, if you wish to leave a message for him I assure you I will see it delivered."

"I can't write," he answered sullenly, "and what I have to say to him does not concern you."

"No, it concerns the doctor's former patient, your child." It was a long shot but the signs were there and I did not miss my mark. The man's face colored deeply and his mouth dropped open.

"How did you . . . Wait." He muttered to himself, "_Baker_ Street . . . 221 _B_ Baker Street . . . Glories above, you're Mr. Sherlock Holmes! And Dr. Watson is --"

"Quite so." I took the liberty of recapturing my chair before he could collapse back into it. "But you have the advantage of me when it comes to your name, sir."

"Robbins, Mr. Holmes, Daniel Robbins." He sat, this time in Watson's chair. "Forgive me, I'm all a-flutter. I had not idea he was _that _Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes, I _must_ see the doctor now, now that I know who he really is."

"And I am afraid that is still not possible. He is seeing neither visitors nor patients for at least another week."

"Why? Is he ill?"

The directness of Mr. Robbins was appalling. In such situations, it is sometimes more effective to follow suit. "Yes."

"I am sorry to hear that," answered Robbins in real distress. "Very sorry. Especially after the way I . . . Mr. Holmes, you said you would take him a message for me. Will you do that?"

"Certainly."

"Would you tell him that I – I am sorry. For my behavior Tuesday night. It was my own fault for not calling a doctor sooner and I . . . there are no hard feelings. I want him to know that," said he, wringing his hands. "He was a true gentleman through the whole thing and it was very generous of him not to send a bill. Especially when . . . It was kind of him when I didn't deserve it in the least. I don't know his usual fee but I have this and I hope it covers the expense. And the distress." Robbins took from his pocket a few grimy coins, looked about awkwardly, then placed them on the footstool.

"Distress?" I repeated.

He made a few false starts to speak before he managed. "I am ashamed to say, I shouted at him when he told me that it was too late for my Elsie. He said nothing in his own defense, only that he knew what it was to lose a child and he looked like he did too. And that there would be no charge. It took me a while to come to my senses, Mr. Holmes, but when I did I knew I had to come apologize. And so I have. You will tell him, won't you, Mr. Holmes?"

My mind was whirring away with this new-found information. Even so, I nodded and quietly agreed that I would.


	16. Chapter 16

Having seen Mr. Robbins out the door, I collected his offered payment and jingled it in my hand absently. I had correctly deduced the fate of Watson's patient on Tuesday; I had failed to realize what sort of patient she had been. Therein lay the key to Watson's behavior. A child, a young girl, had died just before I had commanded Watson to join me in searching for two other girls. During that house call, he had been reminded of the death of his own child. No wonder he had forced himself to aid in the recovery of the Lynch girls until he quite literally collapsed.

I did not know much about Watson's late child. It had been a girl and she had died in the early spring of 1892 at the end of an influenza season so unforgiving that, allegedly, hearses had to be pulled by brown horses due to the high demand and resulting shortage of black ones (1). Then his wife had passed away a scant year later. All in all, it had been a wretched three years for a man who least deserved such misery.

I slammed the coins onto Watson's desk. Understanding his motivations did not help the current situation in the slightest. I was not sure who I was angrier with: Watson, for being so ridiculously altruistic that he would push his limits to the breaking point; or myself, for being so blindly caught up in the case that I utterly missed how ill he was becoming. Or myself again, for being angry at my friend for something that was not entirely within his control.

In any event, I had a message and fee to deliver. Mrs. Hudson believed Watson was awake; if he were not, my task could wait until morning. I half hoped I could put it off until morning. Cowardly of me, certainly, but there it was. I had no desire to cause him more pain and I feared I might eventually lose my temper at him for trying to right all the wrongs of an injust world.

I ended up being immensely glad I had not waited to see him. The stairwell to his room was oddly chill and the further I climbed the colder I became. I could think of only one explanation for this phenomenon but I could scarcely credit it until I saw proof with my own eyes. Watson stood in front of the window, his back to the door. The window itself was wide open and even from across the room I could see that he was shaking as if with palsy. Yet he did not move away. I charged across the room, pushed Watson aside, and slammed down the window. Little swirls of snow remained on the sill and I swept them aside with my hand as if to rid the place of every last trace of this madness. Then I stared at my friend sitting on the edge of the bed, who in turn glared at me. He had not stopped shaking and there was a thin sheen of perspiration on his brow that paired all too sinisterly with the deep flush on his cheeks.

"What in God's name were you thinking?" I demanded. Watson has said I can be the epitome of masterfulness at times but whatever claims I may have on such an assertion were submerged under a tide of fright and outrage. Mastery means control and it was clear I had none at the moment.

Watson drew breath to answer but instead doubled over coughing. At least Jackson's hyssop tea had proven its worth though I nearly flinched in sympathy at the violence of it. At last he held up his hand in a gesture asking for patience, then held up three fingers. "Three reasons," he whispered. "Number one, I was trying to lower my temperature in a hurry."

"Why?"

"Because it is not a sign of health to see hair growing out of the walls."

It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. That he had been hallucinating whilst I bantered words with Robbins was galling to the extreme. "The second reason?"

"It helped dispel an irritating recurrent dream. And a near inability to distinguish it from reality."

Hallucinations _and_ delirium. How excellent. The news was improving with each passing second. "And the third?"

Watson smiled tightly. "The sudden rush of cold air induced coughing."

"And there was no other solution to all three problems besides trying to freeze both yourself and the household?"

"No."

I ran my hands through my hair in abject frustration. As soon as he was recovered, I was going to throttle this man who seemed so intent on driving me into Bedlam. "I'm going for Jackson this instant."

"For what purpose?" Watson retorted. "To be told I'm worse off than before? We all knew that was inevitable. Or to prescribe some new drug or herb? We are already following the standard treatments. I doubt Jackson has some magic cure at his disposal. Holmes, listen to me: there is nothing more to be done. I must simply ride it out. It won't be pleasant but –" He broke off into a coughing fit, leaving me a chance to sort out my thoughts.

That his protests were logical only made my dilemma worse. I did not know what more could be done, which was not the same as saying that nothing more _could_ be done. I lacked the knowledge and training; I had no data with which to work. What I had gleaned from the borrowed medical texts was woefully inadequate.

Watson finally cleared his throat and leaned back against the headboard. "Did you have a client just now? I thought I heard voices. _Real_ voices," he added with a particular emphasis.

"Yes, there was a visitor," I prevaricated. The unexpected shock had utterly driven my original undertaking from my mind. But if this was meant as a diversionary tactic, so be it. I would allow him to think he had redirected my thoughts from fetching Jackson. "He said to give you these" – I dropped the coins onto the little writing desk – "and to tell you that he holds no hard feelings against you."

"Very kind of him, I'm sure. Who is 'he'?"

"A Mr. Daniel Robbins," I said carefully, scrutinizing his features for any reaction. I was to be disappointed.

"Who?"

"A day laborer and widower. His daughter was your patient on Tuesday night. Elsie, I think her name was."

It was the mention of the deceased girl that finally brought about the reaction I was waiting for. He stilled and dropped his gaze to some point near the floor. "I see. That _is_ kind of him, then."

"He meant to apologize to you in person but both Mrs. Hudson and I told him in no uncertain terms that you were indisposed."

"To put it mildly," Watson agreed flatly, looking up at me again. "Did he say anything else?"

"That he is truly sorry for his unwarranted behavior and he hopes this money covers the expense, although since you did not bill him he could not be certain."

"It is enough," answered Watson, though he had not even glanced at the coins. "Is that the end of the message?"

"He did not say so, but I think Robbins holds out some hope that you harbor no grudge against him."

"Of course I don't."

A wiser, or perhaps kinder, man might have left it there. Being Sherlock Holmes, I had to persist. "You know, risking your health to help recover the Lynch girls could do nothing to help Elsie Robbins or her father."

"That is not what was happening," Watson contradicted tiredly. "You sent me a summons; I answered it. The timing was merely -- " He broke off, coughing again.

We had not yet begun to get to the nub of the matter but my nerve failed me. Or perhaps it was my tact that decided to make an unwelcomed appearance, because I realized then that Watson was far more done in than he was trying to appear. Moreover, he had a correct point: it was I who had summoned him back into that frigid night.

"Coincidence," I finished. "Merely a coincidence." I did not agree, naturally, but I recognized the need to pick and choose my battles from here on out. The debate over his true motives could wait. The argument over whether to call Jackson in again could not.

*****

(1) According to Kipling, anyway.


	17. Chapter 17

_So people don't have to keep flipping back to Ch. 12 for the conversion scale: _

_37 C – 98.6 F / 38 C – 100.4 F / 39 C – 102.2 F / 40 C – 104 F / 41C -105.8 F / 42 C – 107.6 F_

* * *

Apart from romanticizing our little adventures, there is another flaw in the accounts Watson writes up: he inevitably polarizes our roles with myself as pure logic and he as emotion. In truth, Watson has an immensely practical and logical streak and while I normally seek to avoid emotional encounters I am by no means incapable of feeling. I should not possess an iota of tact otherwise. And it was both tact and logic that I needed to proceed successfully. Watson had put forth his arguments against summoning Jackson. It was up to me to convince he was in error.

The most obvious beginning point was to ask how high his fever was now. His apathetic response was that he did not know. This, from the patient who had scrupulously recorded each fluctuation! I glanced at the notebook and saw that his diligence to this cause had been slipping for at least a day now. I casually remarked upon this; Watson answered, rather flatly, that if it was such a concern for me then I could record it myself.

"It is a concern for me and I will be happy to record it if I knew what the reading was," I retorted, pointedly seizing the thermometer from the nightstand and handing it to him. Watson gave a long-suffering sigh and complied.

It would take five minutes for the procedure to be complete, during which conversation was an impossibility. Instead, I set about making myself useful: seeing to the fire, restocking supplies, ignoring Watson's black looks that were as eloquent as words, and making general observations. What recordings of the fever he had made showed more erratic fluctuations than before. Whether this was due to the severity of his illness or simply due to haphazard record-keeping I did not know. What I did know was that Watson looked weaker and more haggard than before. Every now and then his shoulders shook with suppressed coughs and his eyes were starting to water from the strain.

The quinine was still present but the morphine had been put away and in its place was a packet of powder labeled salicylic acid. I was only vaguely familiar with the powder but I knew it was inferior to morphine when it came to the treatment of pain. I wondered if it had become too difficult to inject the morphine while ill, and if an offer to assist him would be accepted or declined in offense. Asking Watson about it at the moment was not an option; I should have to wait.

Having finished that, my mind went over Watson's explanation for his actions and set to work recreating the situation, aided by further observations of the room and the objects within. "Let me make sure I understand what was happening. You were asleep, having a dream of some repetitive action and the dream itself kept repeating itself over the course of the day. Upon waking, you realized you were unsure of what was reality and what was the dream. You recognized this as delirium and promptly took a dose of both salicyclic powder and quinine with water. Very soon afterwards, you began hallucinating and understood you did not have time to allow the medications to take effect. You opened the window to access the winter air and the shock of the cold inadvertently induced coughing. This was merely an unintended bonus, as that was one of the goals anyway. You remained at the window for perhaps ten, fifteen, minutes before I intruded, which brings us to the immediate present."

Watson was still silenced by the thermometer but nodded and applauded briefly. I accepted the praise, such as it was, but I now had new concerns to address. A light touch was needed here. I continued.

"Well, in light of these events, I must apologize for shouting at you. Obviously you knew what you were doing, even if it was somewhat extreme. I might go so far as to say that in my amateur opinion you have done remarkably well in the dual role of both physician and patient."

Watson's expression clearly proclaimed he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, as well he might. I was employing a classic technique of flattery followed by gentle criticism. "Today you were able to determine that you needed treatment and were able to carry it out. I cannot but think, however, that it was a near thing. By your own admission, you were close to delirium. For this reason, I would like to alert Jackson to these new symptoms and allow him to determine if a house call is necessary. A precaution, for now, but should the illness worsen further –" I stopped, a thick, choking sensation gripping my throat. Watson watched me intently with an expression I could not quite read. I forced myself to continue.

"I should think he would prefer to be unnecessarily prepared than to be caught off guard," I finished quietly.

Watson sat silently for moment. Then he drew the thermometer from his mouth, glanced at it and set it aside. "105.3," he reported, then finally indulged in the coughing fit his body had been demanding.

And no doubt the fever had been even higher before he had flung open the window. Still, it was high enough now for grave concern. Perhaps the pharmaceuticals would be enough to bring it down; perhaps not. It was but one more factor for Watson to consider. I waited for his response, trusting that his characteristic good sense would triumph. I should hate to go against his wishes but I would if I had to.

Finally Watson closed his eyes and sighed. "My sense, but not my pride, consents," he paraphrased with a humorless smile.

"I care for thy health and not thy pride (1)," I paraphrased in return, wholly in earnest and wholly relieved. I thought I knew my Watson. Before I left to send a letter to Jackson, however, there was one thing I needed to check on.

"Do you need anything?"

He shook his head, coughing again.

I waited for it to subside, using it as an opportunity to make sure he had water within arm's reach. "You've substituted salicylic powder for morphine, but I did not think the powder was as powerful an analgesic as morphine."

"It isn't, but morphine affects respiration and does not have any fever-lowering properties."

No mention of any difficulty wielding a syringe but I had already compromised his pride enough. I merely acknowledged the reasoning behind the change and moved to leave.

"Holmes."

I turned. "Yes?"

"You would have told Jackson even if I hadn't consented."

"Yes, of course." There was no reason to lie; anyway, he had already agreed to it.

"Why bother asking then?"

I shrugged. "I thought it more courteous to give you the illusion of a choice."

"Thank you," Watson retorted ironically.

* * *

(1) _Romeo and Juliet._ The original dialogue between Romeo and the apothecary goes: "My poverty, but not my will, consents." "I pay thy poverty and not thy will." Yes, in the Canon it's usually Holmes who quotes Shakespeare but the line was too good to pass up.

_Is Watson a little cranky? I rather think he is. Not without reason, mind you, but if he seems somewhat ooc, I apologize. Having a simple cold is unpelasant enough; I imagine having pneumonia is in a different league entirely._


	18. Chapter 18

_37 C – 98.6 F / 38 C – 100.4 F / 39 C – 102.2 F / 40 C – 104 F / 41C -105.8 F / 42 C – 107.6 F_

* * *

I dashed off the message to Jackson as quickly as I could force my hand to move. I dutifully reported to Mrs. Hudson that I had checked on Watson, without betraying his unspoken request for discretion. I had already verified that there was nothing more Watson needed at the moment. Officially, there was nothing left for me to do.

A visit from Lestrade briefly distracted me. He had come to confirm that the son of a well-known if low-ranking baronet was behind a rash of minor thefts in said baronet's household. I never have been able to convince Lestrade of the importance of reading the agony columns. Had he but taken the time to do so, he would have seen what I had.

I promptly confirmed that it was actually the baronet's wife, who was desperate enough for money to pay off a blackmailer that she found less shame in framing her own son than in confessing her indiscretions to her husband. My success was made doubly bitter by the realization that I had been hearing more and more of this master blackmailer over the past few years. Perhaps some day . . .

In the meantime, I still had not heard back from Jackson and I was chafing from inactivity. I looked in on Watson once, only to be told, rather snappishly, "Holmes, please, just go." I took no offense. I had the advantage of having been Watson's patient on more than one occasion and could recall not only the care he had offered but the misery I had experienced regardless.

At loose ends, I paced the length of the sitting room without daring to take up my pipe or violin. If I did not hear from Jackson within the hour I would go down to him and drag him back to Baker Street bodily. Of course, I could bring in another doctor if need be but I was loath to do so. Watson trusted Jackson, as did I. He was of the few medical men of my acquaintance who was not a boorish, egotistical oaf. The other exception lay ill upstairs.

Fortunately for Jackson, his telegram arrived just before I lost my patience entirely. He agreed that the high fever was worrisome but not unexpected. He would call at Baker Street as soon as he was able. In the meantime, we were to "stay the course" concerning treatment. This was somewhat less helpful than I had hoped.

I did what I could. No doubt I made a wretched hash of it. If my mind rebels at stagnation, my heart revolts at helplessness. And Watson was correct when he said much of it he would simply have to ride out. Despite the medications and teas he was worn from incessant coughing and exhausted from lack of restful sleep. I could not but help note there were more periods of delirium; these frightened me the most. It was as if my friend's body remained but he himself vanished, to be replaced by some spirit that did not recognize me and whispered hoarsely in confusion.

Under other circumstances I might be inclined to laugh at the ridiculous images he described. But when the man speaking is a dear friend whose eyes glitter with fever, whose grip burns through my shirtsleeve, who at times even knows how preposterous he sounds, it is far from humorous to hear him speaking of furniture staring at him or ask me to stop the room from spinning.

Three more days of this before recovery, according to the proposed timeline. A mere seventy-two hours. So little time and yet so much could happen. Life hinges upon the merest of trifles. Deprive a man of oxygen for only five minutes and he dies. Raise his temperature a scant six degrees and his brain begins to react negatively. My "genius for minutiae," as Watson once put it, was going to drive me mad if I allowed it to continue in this vein. Watson had survived worse, I reminded myself. He was strong and confounded stubborn. Pneumonia could be serious but it was not always fatal.

It had not yet been twenty-four hours since Jackson's last message. It had been but a week since the Lynch case began. I could scarcely credit it. Neither could Watson, apparently, for in a moment of lucidity he gripped my hand and demanded to know if we had found Abigail and Lucy.

"Yes, of course. We found them last week," I answered. "Don't you remember?"

"I thought I did," he murmured, "but I wasn't sure. I've been 'remembering' many strange things lately. And then just now . . . I must have dreamed it . . . I thought we were too late and they had died."

"No," I said immediately. "They are perfectly fine. I have seen them for myself."

"Good," he whispered. "There is enough death in the world. Too many have died as it is. War, fire, disease . . . sometimes for no good reason at all . . ."

I felt myself go cold with fear. I was fairly certain Watson was not referring to his own impending death but that he was harboring such dark thoughts disturbed me. Was he slipping back into delirium? If so, it was essential I go for Jackson now. I could wait no longer; _Watson_ could wait no longer. My immediate concern, however, was to calm him enough that I could leave him and send Mrs. Hudson to watch over him until I could return with Jackson.

"It's all right, Watson. You needn't worry over it anymore," I insisted. "I am going to fetch a doctor."

"May not help," he murmured but more in sorrow than agitation.

"Nevertheless, it cannot do any harm," I answered, striving for my usual, confident tone. "I shall not be gone long." I squeezed his hand reassuringly but he tightened his grip as I tried to withdraw.

"Holmes, people die all the time," he repeated. "We are not gods. Patients are mortal and doctors are fallible."

"Be that as it may," I snapped, "I mean to see to it that you are not going to die now." I pulled free of his grasp more vehemently than I meant, frightened and subsequently irked by the fear itself.

"Holmes, that's the point," Watson persisted hoarsely. He stared at me intensely, as if willing me to understand. "You don't know, I don't know, no one does. Sometimes death comes like a thief in the night, unexpected, no signs, no warning. No reason. No, no, there is a reason but we couldn't find it. Neither of us."

"Watson," I interrupted helplessly and stopped. What platitudes could I offer in the face of this morbid philosophy?

"Can you find the reason?" he whispered, and the pleading desperation that was in his tone and face was heart-rending. "I couldn't. Jackson couldn't. But . . . perhaps you can. You were dead, after all, and you came back."

"Find the reason for what?"

"Why she died."

Who "she" was went beyond my comprehension but if it would easy his worry . . . "I will do my best," I pledged.


	19. Chapter 19

I hated to leave Watson alone in that state for even the minute or two it would take to speak to Mrs. Hudson but I had no choice. Anyway, far better to leave him for a moment to get help than to sit uselessly beside him.

I leaped down the stairs to the sitting room. I was just drawing breath to bellow for Mrs. Hudson when the sitting room door flew open and I very nearly collided into Jackson. The doctor had been running about London for over a full day and looked it. He was also flushed and breathing hard. For a moment I wondered if we might not end up with two patients at Baker Street. Then I realized it was merely overexertion from running down half of Baker Street, sending muddy slush halfway up the side of his trousers.

"I was – delayed," Jackson panted. "I'm sorry, it was – "

"An emergency," I finished, feeling somewhat more congenial than I had but a minute before. Given the faint remnants of blood spots on his cuffs, it was an understandable delay. I should have known that nothing but a critical situation would have kept Jackson away for so long. Worry was wrecking havoc on my deductive faculties.

I re-crossed the sitting room with him, quickly relaying the latest developments in Watson's condition. While the concern that crossed his face alleviated my fear that I was overreacting, it did nothing to assuage my fears about Watson's health.

Jackson slipped past me and made his way up to Watson's room. I would have remained there on the steps were it not difficult and somewhat perilous to pace nervously on a narrow landing. I retreated to the sitting room. Bereft of my other forms of mental stimulation, I resorted to tapping out unmeasured beats while I thought.

Watson had begged my help, albeit somewhat nonsensically. His question as to why "she" died was not the real concern. Beneath it was an acknowledgement of some failure on his part that preyed on him even more in the throes of fever. I did not know how much aid I could offer but I was determined to do what I could. Before I did that, however, I had to identify who it was that Watson was fretting over. There were altogether too many females available for consideration. The "she" Watson mentioned might refer to either of the Lynch girls or even their mother. He had spoken of them at the start of our convoluted conversation. It might be Elsie Robbins, whose death he could not prevent. Or, on a more personal note, Watson may have been referring to his daughter or his wife. Or, given his delirious state, he might have referred to some fictitious person who existed only in fever-dreams. Upon further thought, I could not credit Watson with being that incoherent. I had observed him in both full and partial delirium, and I flattered myself that I could accurately distinguish the two. No, he had had a real person in mind. Now, to identify her.

I could rule out the entire Lynch family. There was no reason to think Watson was referring to Victor's wife and we both had become accustomed to thinking of Abigail and Lucy as a single unit. He had used a singular pronoun so it could not be either of them.

Elsie Robbins was a more promising candidate. Hers was a recent death and brought even closer to mind by Mr. Robbins's apology and payment. Even so, I did not think she was the one causing my friend so much concern. From what I remembered, it sounded like the child's premature demise was inevitable and that she had either been dead or dying by the time Watson was summoned. While certainly tragic, there was no mystery to it. Then too there was his curious reference to Jackson having been unable to help. As far as I knew, Jackson had never set foot in the Robbins household.

That left me with only the late Mrs. Watson or the daughter I knew so little about – both unappealing choices in that they made an already uncomfortable situation distressingly personal. Mycroft had been his usual compendious self when reporting the facts of Mrs. Watson's death -- complications following a miscarriage -- and he had been downright perfunctory when it came to the child. A single sentence telegram had summed up her fate: "March 14, Watson's daughter dead, aged 3 months." I did not even know her name. At the time of the news I had neither the time nor resources to do any research and afterwards it had not been a pressing issue. Obviously I had erred in that latter assumption.

I tried to put aside a sudden flare of guilt and self-directed anger by pacing across the sitting room. What the devil was taking Jackson so long? Was Watson's condition so critical? Had I somehow compromised his health by not seeking out some other doctor while Jackson was unavailable? Of course the bouts of delirium were alarming but I was under the impression the increased cough was beneficial. Especially after Jackson's concern about the initial lack of cough.

When at last I heard Jackson's step on the stairs I flew to meet him before he could descend completely. "Well?" I demanded.

He took a step back at my enthusiasm. "May I get off the stairs first please?"

I obliged with alacrity, allowing him passage into the sitting room and even drawing him up a chair. "How is Watson?" I repeated more calmly.

"Not well," said he bluntly. "The illness appears to be falling more in line with that of a usual pneumonia. It is a serious case and I estimate it will be another two or three days before the crisis. It took some time just now to bring his fever down to a safer temperature."

"How much danger is there?"

Jackson paused, considering. "There is enough that I shall make certain that I will not be far from Baker Street. But the odds are in his favor. It has not worsened into double pneumonia and he has a solid constitution, albeit somewhat tried at the moment."

I appreciated the honesty. It is far easier to plan when one has full command of the facts. Of course, I might have hoped for better news. "Do you prescribe the same treatment as before?"

"We can do little else," he shrugged, not without sympathy. "Though until the crisis is past I recommend keeping more stringent control over the fever and perhaps work on lessening the violence of the coughing. Yes, it keeps the infection from settling but it is also very tiring. I can leave instructions for when I am not here."

"I should like that." I was well over my head in matters of medicine and I much prefer a plan to impromptu actions, though I have learned time and again the lesson of the best-laid plans. I waited for Jackson to carefully write out the directions but realized time was growing short if I was to obtain any information concerning the female Watson had worried over earlier.

"Was he still delirious when you went up?" I asked cautiously.

Jackson paused. "Somewhat," he admitted.

"Did he mention the name 'Elsie' to you?"

"Not Elsie, no. Why, was that what it sounded like to you?"

I gestured vaguely. "I might have misunderstood it."

A stricken look crossed Jackson's face and he let out a sigh. "The name I heard," he said slowly, "was _Ellie_."


	20. Chapter 20

_37 C – 98.6 F / 38 C – 100.4 F / 39 C – 102.2 F / 40 C – 104 F / 41C -105.8 F / 42 C – 107.6 F_

* * *

A stricken look crossed Jackson's face and he let out a sigh. "The name I heard," he said slowly, "was _Ellie_."

This name was not familiar to me but I felt the telltale exhilaration of knowing I was on the right scent. "That was their nickname for their daughter?" I asked, trusting I was not too far off the mark.

"Yes. It was fitting, given her full name."

I was not about to show my ignorance by asking what that full name might be. That was not the primary question anyway and given Jackson's pained expression he was my key to this mystery. The procedure here was to exchange information for information. "I wonder if Watson's thoughts are preoccupied with her now because of circumstances over the past week."

"How do you mean?"

"We had been investigating a case involving the disappearance of two young girls the week before, and then the night he collapsed he had lost a patient -- another young girl."

"I think your conjecture has merit," Jackson conceded with a sigh. "Heaven knows I have never heard him speak of her since her death."

"She died in mid-March of 1892," I said and Jackson nodded. Then, recalling Watson's cryptic request, I added, "I had assumed it was from the influenza that was gripping London all that winter."

"No. That might have made things a great deal easier," he replied tightly. At my questioning look, he continued. "It was a cot death. That was the coroner's report, anyway. They had to autopsy her for there wasn't a mark on her. He never did find any apparent cause." (1)

I felt myself turn cold and sick. "What do you mean, no apparent cause?" I snapped. "Death does not simply occur spontaneously any more than life does."

"I mean no one knows why she is dead!" Jackson looked at me in revisited grief. "Mr. Holmes, that little girl survived being born a month prematurely. She survived one of the worst influenza epidemics I have ever seen. She survived the bitter cold of that winter. And then, just at the start of spring, they put her to bed for the night and by eight the next morning she was dead. Not only dead but well into rigor mortis.

"It was Mrs. Watson who found her like that. My God, I can see her expression still!" Jackson choked suddenly but manfully continued. "From what we could piece together, Ellie was alive and sleeping peacefully at eleven that night, when they checked on her before retiring. Some time between then and midnight was when . . . it happened."

"They called you in," I murmured.

He nodded. "As her father Watson was not permitted to sign the death certificate. Nor, I imagine, should he have any wish to, for the same reason."

"Of course." I was merely mouthing the words, nothing more than filler to keep the wretched story going.

"There was a small inquest. Strange, isn't it, that every year hundreds of unwanted infants die from neglect and malnutrition in this city without any hue or cry – that Dryer woman case proves my point (2) –" he added bitterly, "but let the child of a respectable family die and the authorities pounce upon it. It turned a tragic incident into a living nightmare. It was devastating."

"The inquest suggested the death was due to some negligence on the part of the parents?" It was only by detaching Watson from the situation that I could even formulate the question.

"They had to consider that as a matter of formality but it was soon dropped. Mr. Holmes, are you all right?"

My fingers were twitching slightly with desperate desire to release suppressed anxiety. That, and a sudden inability to breathe deeply, were surely the only signs that betrayed me. "I had not appreciated the extent of the matter," I replied simply without a tremor. "Pray continue."

"There is not much more to tell. Ellie was buried and the next year so was Mrs. Watson."

" 'Complications of miscarriage,'" I quoted.

"Yes. The trauma and blood loss was bad enough but the infection was too much for her in the end. Bad enough it was an ectopic gestation."

I nearly shrugged. The semantics of medical terminology was nothing to me under normal circumstances. What concerned me was that she had died under circumstances that were painful and irreparable only a year after her daughter's death. "Watson blamed himself for that as well?"

Jackson paused. "Not intellectually. Such conditions cannot be prevented and afterwards everything that could be done to help her was done. But I'm sure there is some lingering guilt. 'Shoemakers' children' (3) and so forth."

To say nothing of Watson's own compassionate nature and how he loathed with every fiber of his being to lose a patient. The difference between the deaths was that one could be explained and rationalized and thus eventually accepted while the other could not. As I said once before, where there is no mystery there is no horror.

Watson had asked me to solve that mystery. In all the years of our association, he had brought a mere three cases to me. Of those, the problem of the missing naval treaty had the most personal ties for him and that was but a schoolmate from decades past. Now, with this fourth case where the stakes were highest, I could not help him.

Why should a baby be born with such odds stacked against her, survive them, and then die? How could any child die for no apparent reason? Why are good men visited with such unwarranted hardship and grief? What was the purpose of it all? As with Ellie's death, there must be a reason for it but that reason remained hidden. I had no answers to give.

Jackson had apparently taken my introspective silence as a signal the conversation was at an end. "With your permission, Mr. Holmes, I'll have a quick nap here and check on Watson in an hour. If he is still stable I'll return tomorrow."

"You are certainly welcomed to the sofa," I replied – as if I would begrudge him a much-needed rest! -- "but if he is not stable?"

He was already stretched out upon that piece of furniture and half asleep. "In that case I send a telegram to my wife to let her know where I am and take up temporary residence at Baker Street until he is."

* * *

(1) To this day, the cause(s) for SIDS remains hazy. The number of deaths attributed to SIDS dropped in the 1990s, when there was a campaign to put infants to bed on their backs. (In Victorian times, parents were encouraged to put babies to sleep on their stomachs.) In 2007, a study was done that suggests a link between SIDS and abnormal serotonin receptors in the medulla oblongata. In 2008, another study found a correlation between SIDS and _staph_ and bacteria. Peak age for SIDS is between two and four months, when the antibodies from the mother are dying off and the child is forming his/her own.

(2) Amelia Dryer ran baby-farms for what is estimated to be twenty years. Unlike most baby-farmers, who accepted weekly fees and would slowly starve the children in order to eke out the most money from the parent(s), Dryer methodically murdered each baby within twenty-four hours of the child being put into her care. She was hung for her crimes in 1896; her daughter Polly took over the "family business" before being caught in 1898.

(3) The complete saying is "Shoemakers' children go barefoot and doctors' wives die young."


	21. Chapter 21

It was I who wrote the telegram to Jackson's wife and Mrs. Hudson who took charge of its delivery. The fever, almost as stubborn as Watson himself, had crept up to just over 105. Jackson had declared war against it and commenced an immediate plan of attack. His weapons of choice included heavier and more frequent doses of quinine and salicylate. And, to Watson's chagrin, cool water treatments. We had been using cold clothes but Jackson felt the water would be more effective at conducting away heat. He seemed to be correct. Certainly Watson started more violently when the cold jolted him out of sleep, as I discovered during a moment of uncharacteristic unpreparedness. While awake he had a better control of his reactions and I was glad both for the sake of his dignity and my jaw.

As for the wretched, relentless coughing, it was only partly eased by whatever obscure herbal concoctions Jackson and Mrs. Hudson devised. There was little else we could do to make him comfortable. The inexorable fatigue would resolve only when the pneumonia did. No one yet has found a way of capturing and bottling sleep, more's the pity; the fellow who could do that would make a fortune a thousand times over.

Certainly Jackson and I could have used such an elixir. Jackson took the brunt of tending Watson, exiling me to the sitting room or my bedroom for the majority of the time. When at last fatigue overtook him, he would allow me to take his place at Watson's bedside for a few hours. In such a fashion we finished Sunday and drifted through Monday into Tuesday.

The pneumonia had halted its declination thanks to Jackson's stringent campaign. On the other hand, I should not like to call his condition improved by any stretch. The coughing and fever continued to drain his energies. It was fortunate he was already propped up with nearly every pillow in the household; he only had an inch or so to collapse back after each coughing fit.

Now he lay listing to one side, lightly dozing with his head turn to rest on one of the top pillows. His lips were cracked and lightly scabbed where the driest skin had split and torn. There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow and that ubiquitous flush upon his cheeks that despite our best efforts never faded. Then too there was that heavy, strained wheeze to his breathing that I had come to despise because it epitomized his struggles.

I sat noiselessly into the chair that had been drawn up to the bed. Jackson had already assured me my duties were only to make sure there was nothing he needed. A perusal of the log he had been keeping confirmed that.

I sighed. There had been no more bouts of delirium since Sunday and as such there had been no more references to Ellie. Or to any of the other girls, for that matter. I was not sure if I should wait for him to return to the topic or if I should broach it first. It may be that he would not even recall the conversation, such as it was. Certainly I would prefer to wait until he was recovered before discussing it.

A shadow of a thought streaked through my mind and I quelled it immediately. Of course he would recover. It simply went without saying. Jackson had said the odds were in his favor; I had no reason to doubt his professional judgment.

Watson suddenly made a choking sound and began coughing yet again, curling in upon himself. I sat frozen by indecision. He did not appear to need any intervention but that harsh, deep hack must have been as painful as it sounded. His eyes squeezed shut with the effort until he finally slumped back gasping.

"Watson?" I whispered, unsure if he was still asleep.

His eyes cracked open and there was a bright glitter to them I did not like. "Holmes," he acknowledged but there was scarcely any sound to it.

"Would you like some water?"

He shook his head slightly to the negative and let his eyes fall shut again. This little exchange repeated a few times before he finally accepted the offer. Even then, he only took a few sips from the glass I had to steady for him before settling back.

I put the rejected glass back on the nightstand and found myself once again at a loss. If there was anything he needed he had but to ask; I hoped he realized that. Finally I voiced that sentiment but softly so as not to wake him if he were asleep.

Watson opened his eyes again and smiled faintly. "I know," he murmured. He convulsed slightly with suppressed cough and turned his head away slightly. "I am so tired of this," he whispered more to the ceiling than to me.

"Being ill, you mean?" I could not help but ask. I did not care to imagine what else he might be referring to.

He nodded weakly. "Always hated it."

"Yes, that seems to be the consensus at 221B," I commented, striving for levity. "You have made note of my own surliness during illness."

Watson made no sign that he heard my words, having apparently slipped back into sleep. I was unsurprised by this but I still did not like it. Despite the exhaustion the sleep he was getting was sporadic and unsatisfying. I waited a few more minutes to be certain he was truly unconscious and not merely uncommunicative.

There was more coughing but no more conversation. After a time Jackson rejoined us, gently taking Watson's pulse without disturbing his rest. I relinquished the chair so he could make a more thorough examination. It was abbreviated though I could not see why.

Jackson turned to me, serious once again. "Mr. Holmes," he said slowly and quietly, with that sympathetic bedside manner so like Watson's, "I think it would be best if you stepped outside."

* * *

I paced up and down the landing outside his bedroom, my mind in turmoil. I halted, my heart nearly stopping, hearing his hoarse breathing and coughing cease – then letting my breath out with a hiss as he started again. I collapsed onto the stairs, knowing if I stood for any longer my trembling would cause me to fall. I had deduced the crisis Jackson had anticipated was happening but I had no way of knowing how Watson was faring. All I knew was that so long as Watson could cough, he still lived. Since I could be of no use whatsoever to him now, I allowed myself to sink into fit of guilt and self-recriminations.

I had not even known he was feeling ought but normal until he had suddenly collapsed gasping for breath. Despite the lack of cough, despite all the time I had spent away from Baker Street that week, I should have realized how worn and ill he had become. How could I have not seen the indications? Watson was good at hiding pain from me but not that good. If I had not been so caught up in the Lynch case . . .

I sighed and let my head fall into my hands. The Lynch case. Had Victor not turned criminal the girls might have had access to the school that had so fascinated them and thus avoided their misadventure. I still could not but help wonder why Victor had not simply come to me if he had needed money rather than descend into fraud. There too I was culpable though I had done what I could to make repairs after the fact. Time would tell if that was enough.

Another muffled coughing sound brought my mind back to the present and the problems I could do nothing to solve. I could not ease the burden of his grief, however unwarranted it was, and I could not ease his physical suffering from the pneumonia.

Even disregarding the inexcusable ignorance of what Watson had undergone in my absence, I ought to have extrapolated upon what I already knew of his character. Watson had an innate compassion for others and an overwhelming devotion to me and my cases. I should have factored in how his unceasing altruism would cause him to push his physical limitations past the breaking point. Had I been half as observant as my reputation claimed I would have realized he was in no condition to go tramping through an ice storm with me, even before I had sent that curt telegram Tuesday night. Who knows – perhaps that final exposure to frigid weather had been what finally pushed his health over the edge. I do not often make blunders but when I do they are spectacular ones. This one might even now be costing me a price so high I would never be able to pay. No case was worth losing him, not even one involving a former Irregular.

I jumped to my feet as the coughing from the bedroom stopped again, choking on the lump in my throat – but it started once more and I slumped back. Jackson emerged a moment later and I sprang for him eagerly.

"He's still very ill, Mr. Holmes, I can't lie to you," the physician said soberly before I could bombard him with questions.

"But will he –"

"If he continues to fight, he should pull through. The crisis is past, but his fever's still high and it will still be a battle."

It was not the best news he could have given me but it would do. By Jove, it would do! I found myself grinning foolishly, wringing his hand mercilessly. Fortunately Jackson seemed to be taking my reaction in stride, smiling faintly but understandingly.

I cleared my throat which had constricted tightly at the news. Then I swallowed twice, hard, before I was sure my voice was functional once again. "Thank you," I said quietly and meant it more than I could say.

* * *

TBA


	22. Chapter 22

I gently opened the door. Jackson had said I might see Watson now but that he would probably remain asleep for several hours, catching up on the rest he had been deprived of for so long. His temperature was continuing to fall steadily, hovering at just under 102. That was the lowest it had been in days. It had not been a true crisis, Jackson warned, which meant recovery would take longer than usual but so long as Watson _would_ recover I would not quibble much over the timeframe. Coughing fits were tolerable for both parties; death was less so. At least Jackson was positive Watson had turned the corner for the better.

The gas had been lowered and it cast a feeble glow onto the flushed figure struggling to breathe despite being so propped up that he was nearly sitting upright. I sat on the edge of the bed, laying an unsteady hand on Watson's forehead. He shifted slightly, moaning, but made no other move to acknowledge me. He was still feverish, unconsciously coughing. I picked up the cool cloth from the table, laid it on his forehead, then sat in Jackson's vacated chair to wait. And to think.

My thoughts were nowhere near pleasant. Yes, I was unspeakably grateful he would live but I could not release the guilt I felt concerning this matter. I would never have forgiven myself had he not survived the crisis. What kind of detective – what kind of _friend_ was I? I had said once I thought I knew my Watson. If that were true I would have foreseen this outcome and taken the steps necessary to prevent it. I had failed in that as I had failed his request for finding absolution over his daughter's death. I was without doubt the lowest form of –

"Holmes?" A hoarse whisper disintegrated my thoughts; I glanced up to see him looking at me with clouded eyes. I sat beside him and took his hand gently.

"Sorry for s-scaring you," he murmured weakly, coughing slightly. No reproach for my atrocious conduct, only self-effacing consideration for my feelings. I bowed my head over his hand, not wanting him to see my too-rapid blinking.

"It's quite all right, my dear fellow," I managed. He closed his eyes and seemed to relax back into sleep. We sat like that for a few minutes before he surprised me by stirring and speaking, albeit so quietly I could scarcely hear him.

"You were scared? I didn't dream that?"

"What is it you remember?"

Watson paused. "I was trying to ask you – " He broke off, coughing slightly. His hand tightened around mine until it was over. "Trying to ask you about something – war, I think," he resumed hoarsely. "Something absurd anyway. I've never seen you look so frightened. That was real, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was real," I answered readily. "You may not have seen me that frightened before but that is because I have never seen you that ill before." I did not add that it had not been war he asked me about.

"Sorry," he repeated faintly.

"Nonsense," I said more firmly. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"But – "

I closed my eyes tightly and reminded myself he was nowhere near healthy enough to be arguing with me. Neither would I allow him to take blame himself for something out of his control. He had been doing enough of that as it was. "Watson, if you _must_ debate that point at least have the decency to wait until morning. You look positively ghastly and you've no voice to speak of. If you'll pardon the unintended pun." Then, despite myself, I softened. "Please, Watson, get some sleep and I promise tomorrow we will discuss whatever you wish."

"I will hold you to that," he murmured but obediently settled back once again.

"I know," I replied softly. I did not mind if he did hold me to that. It meant he would be alive in the morning to do it.

*****

I woke up with a start. I was still in Watson's room, having fallen asleep by his side. My neck was aching and stiff and I felt as though my mind had been enveloped by one of London's Specials. What had woken me was Watson pulling his hand out from underneath mine. It was not deliberate; he had merely shifted into a more comfortable position in his sleep. He looked as though he had cast off the fever entirely and his breathing was steady and deep if still wheezy. Better yet, he looked utterly peaceful and did not stir an inch when I scraped the chair on the floor as I stood.

The latter was inexcusably clumsy of me. I am no stranger to prolonged sleep deprivation; there was no reason I should be so affected by it now. I splashed some cold water in my face and felt a trifle more awake. I would have to check with Jackson as to the treatment during Watson's convalescence. Most immediately, we would have to thrash out whether sleep or food was the more pressing need. I knew what vote Mrs. Hudson would cast but personally I thought it kinder to let him rest.

Especially since even now there were soft, sporadic coughs coming from the bed once again. I was glad for his sake that not even the coughing was enough to wake him now but I wished he was showing more signs of health than he was.

My eyes still felt gritty and my limbs like lead weights as I made way to the sitting room. The clock on the mantle was just chiming eight-thirty. Jackson was seated at our table with his eyes half-closed and a steaming cup of black coffee in his hands. I was glad to see a clean, empty cup and a nearly full pot of coffee waiting for me.

Jackson smiled tiredly as I helped myself to the brew. "Good morning. How is the patient doing?"

"Asleep at last. Truly asleep, not just dozing. I think the fever has broken as well." I hesitated and then added in a low voice, "But he's still coughing."

The doctor nodded. "I'm not surprised. The infection had time to settle and spread early on. It will take some time for his lungs to clear entirely, perhaps a fortnight or longer."

"Is he still in any danger?"

"I shouldn't think so. The greatest dangers now are relapse or rib fracture from coughing. I don't see either of these happening so long as he gets the rest he needs. Which reminds me . . . if he puts so much as one toe out of bed you have my full permission to take whatever actions you deem necessary."

I smiled at that. Carte blanchefrom the attending physician was a considerable boon. I only hoped I would not have to use it.

"I've already spoken to your landlady about nutritional requirements," Jackson continued, "but my primary concern at the moment is making sure you get some rest as well."

"I?"

It was downright eerie to see that knowing look Watson often gave me coming from another doctor. "Watson will be asleep for a few more hours. Yes, that is perfectly normal after crisis resolution," he added before I could express any more doubts. "I trust you'll want to be there when he wakes and I guarantee you'll be of no use if you are on the verge of collapse yourself. If nothing else, have a wash and some breakfast."

I could not argue with this last suggestion; I felt as dingy as a dustman and surprisingly ravenous. I finished my coffee with one scalding gulp and went to do as he advised.


	23. Chapter 23

I would have accused Jackson of slipping some sedative into my breakfast save that hardboiled eggs and toast do not make for good concealment and he partook of the coffee just as I did. No, I have no excuse as to why I promptly fell asleep in my chair by the fire after leaving the table. It took Jackson's insistent shaking of my shoulder to rouse me. Even then, I had been slumbering so deeply it took a moment to orientate myself to my surroundings.

"Wha --?"

"It's nearly noon," Jackson explained. "I wanted to tell you that Watson is awake and much improved."

"Are you headed home, then?" I stretched my limbs and stopped mid-move. It was tragically obvious he was. Why else would he be wearing his coat? Really, my faculties seemed to have taken a holiday for the past fortnight.

Fortunately Jackson either politely ignored or was unaware of unworthiness of this question. "Yes, but I shall be back this evening to check on him. He won't need much supervision from here on out except to make sure he doesn't overexert himself while recuperating." We both spontaneously smiled wryly at that.

"I do apologize for not waking you sooner," Jackson went on. "I know you would have preferred to be there when he first woke but you needed rest yourself. You may go up to see him now, if you wish."

If I wished! It was only good manners that kept me from springing to my feet and pounding up the stairs, because in doing so I would have had to knock Jackson over altogether. And I owed him far too much to treat him so shabbily. Somehow I found the self-control to thank him and see him to the door before turning and sprinting up two flights of stairs without pause.

Watson was not only awake, he was sipping carefully at a mug of soup that had white wisps of steam curling up from its contents. "Hullo, Holmes," he said at my entrance, cheerful though still hoarse. How paradoxical, that despite the remaining pallor and dark smudges beneath his eyes he looked heartier than he had for many days. Weeks, come to think of it.

"Watson," I panted in acknowledgement. His eyebrows rose slightly in amusement as I dropped into the nearest chair and regained my breath.

He coughed briefly. "You needn't have run all the way up."

"Jackson and I agreed you are at a high risk of noncompliance when it comes to bed rest," I answered flippantly. "I did not want to allow you chance to succumb to temptation."

The look he sent me said more plainly than words that he was not fooled. "Well, there is no risk of that today," he conceded. "Not finishing this soup is the extent of the trouble I'm up to causing at the moment."

"That is trouble enough," retorted I. "And this time it will be you who will have to answer to Mrs. Hudson."

Watson smiled. "You would send an invalid to face her wrath?" he asked around small coughs. "That is cruel, Holmes."

"Consider it an incentive for good behavior then," I replied good-naturedly.

We fell into a silence. Watson continued to sip gingerly at his soup and I was content to merely take in the sight of my friend alive, awake, and quite himself once again. I was unspeakably grateful to see him so. It helped to dispel the shadow of fear that still preyed on my mind and caused my emotions to run unchecked. It also helped ease the guilt I still felt at both my dragging him into a storm when he was ill and my inability to help him when he needed it most.

"You truly _were_ worried about me," Watson said suddenly. He was peering at me closely and he looked satisfied. "Either that or you have worn yourself out caring for me. You have missed a spot shaving. Just there, along your jaw."

I brought my fingers to the area he pointed at and winced. "Actually, that is bruise."

"A bruise? What on earth did you do?"

I wavered for a moment but if he was observant enough to see a fading bruise he was likely coherent enough to see and deduce it was from a blow. "I was foolish enough to get in the way of your fist."

"_I_ did that? When?"

I had distressed him, as I feared. "You were startled out of sleep and not fully in your right mind," I said gently. "Besides, I imagine it highly unpleasant to be covered in frigid water when one's temperature is halfway to boiling."

"Well, if it startled me out of that irritating, repetitive dream then I owe you an apology twice over for the godsend."

I quirked an eyebrow at that and Watson obliged ruefully, albeit between more coughs. "There was a tobacco field, perhaps twenty feet across, in the middle of a desert. I don't know what kept me there but I knew I was not allowed to leave until I had cleared all of it with a scythe. But every time I cut a swath of it the plants grew back immediately. It was immensely frustrating."

"I can imagine." The desert I could understand – fever, and perhaps some memory of his time in Afghanistan. Even the never-ending work made some sense when one took into consideration the proclivity of the brain to fixate on ideas or images or sounds during an illness. But . . . "Why tobacco?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps because I haven't smoked or been around your shag for over a week now?"

"The experience is mutual. Mrs. Hudson is no doubt delighted at the clarity of the atmosphere."

"Why on earth haven't _you_ been smoking?" Watson asked and almost immediately followed it with an enlightened-sounding, "Oh."

I smiled and shrugged. I had been found out and there was no reason to deny it. At least, that is what I thought. He took me utterly by surprise by adding, "I'm sorry, Holmes, I had forgotten. I promise, I shall have it mended or replaced as soon as I can."

"What the devil are you talking about?" I demanded, convinced the fever had returned with a vengeance.

Now it was Watson who looked confused. "Your pipe," he answered simply. "You chipped it badly last week when you threw it on the table."

I had forgotten all about that. Between its lack of use and other, more pressing concerns I had not paid my pipe or its damage any mind. "Do not concern yourself over that, my dear fellow."

"Well, I am concerned. That is three apologies I owe you now. I insist you let me pay for the repair . . . or the replacement."

"No. How did you come up with three apologies? I count only two."

Watson was about to start another argument – I could see it in that set, stubborn expression – but instead began coughing again with a violence more reminiscent of the worst of his illness. It was enough to almost upset what little soup remained in the mug. At last he cleared his throat and made to resume.

Sympathy has its time and place; now and here was not it. I strove again for levity. "If you are trying to gain my acquiescence by making a bid for my pity it's not going to work. The answer is still no."

"We shall see about that later," Watson replied, "but one argument at a time, I suppose. You said you would discuss whatever I wished in the morning. "

So that explained the third apology. I had rather hoped he had forgotten about it. "If you wish to discuss it we will but I see no reason for you to apologize for something that was out of your control."

"Was my scaring you beyond my control?" He coughed but persisted, "I remember asking you about something and then you looked frightened. What was it I said?"

I could have groaned aloud. Of all the things to remember why did it have to be that? Why couldn't it have been the spinning room or the staring furniture?

"Holmes?"

"Ellie," I muttered before I could change my mind. "You spoke of Ellie." I could bear no more than a second or two of his stricken, horrified expression before I trained my sight on a point above his shoulder. "You asked me . . . if I could learn why she died."

We fell into another silence, one far more tense than the first. Watson had his eyes closed but other than occasional soft coughs made no sound. Finally I could stand it no longer.

"There is a blessing in the East," I said softly, "a wish for the natural order of things: 'grandfather dies, father dies, son dies.' I would that you had been granted such a blessing. And I am sorry, so very sorry, that there are some mysteries I cannot solve."

"It is not your fault," Watson whispered. "I should not have burdened you with that."

"My dear fellow, if you are apologizing for grieving in my presence I swear I will have hard words with you."

"No, not for grieving. For asking you to solve that which is unsolvable."

There had to be a solution. At the very least, a plan of action. "I could look at the coroner's report myself," I suggested desperately. "Perhaps there was something he missed, some minute symptom –"

"Holmes." Despite the heavy grief that lay on his features I was glad to see a hint of fond exasperation. "The offer is appreciated and you are welcome to try but I don't think it will do any good."

I sighed. Very likely Watson was right. It had been a long shot anyway. "It is monstrously unjust," I proclaimed helplessly.

Watson glanced at me. "Of course it is," he agreed simply.

I did not wish to hurt him further but I had to know. "How do you stand it?"

He stared into the depths of his cup like some fortune teller seeking answers in the dregs. "When a baby smiles at you there is an incalculable joy behind it," said he in a low voice. "It says, 'I love everything in the world but especially you.' To be on the receiving end of such a smile is . . . it is indescribably wonderful. I had that at least."

There was a hard knot in my throat constricting my vocal cords. I swallowed around it. "Forgive me, Watson, but that seems an inadequate compensation."

"It is," he said bluntly, "but I'll take what I can get."

TBA


	24. Chapter 24

I spent the remainder of the week under an immense fatigue and dull achiness akin to the aftermath of my roughest rugby match. It was no hardship to remain in bed save that it was tedious to have no way to occupy my mind other than memorizing the lines of the ceiling or the warps of the walls.

Holmes was reluctant at first to grant me even a light novel until I pointed out how badly boredom wore on him and that he did not hold a monopoly on ennui. In return, I took no offense when he almost gleefully pointed out that I inevitably fell asleep reading. I could have pointed out, but did not, that at least I was sleeping normally again.

The _battle royale_ came after not quite a full week of bedrest. I chose to leave my room for a bath. Holmes was not so impossible as to interrupt but he was waiting for me when I emerged, essentially clothed but opting for dressing gown rather than jacket. From his black scowl, one would think I intended to go out and swim the Thames rather than settle carefully in my chair by the fire.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Resting."

"You know perfectly well what I meant. You are showing an appalling lack of care for your well-being . . . and mine too, for that matter. Jackson would have my head on a platter if he knew I was allowing you out of bed so soon."

"You are not _allowing _me and no, he wouldn't. Jackson couldn't harm a fly. That is his one failing as a physician."

"That he is not strict enough with patients?"

I shrugged. "Some patients need firmer handling than others."

Holmes quirked his brows. "Indeed?"

I ignored his implications. "I see no danger in having a simple bath, Holmes. In fact I think the steam proved beneficial. Besides, it is high time I broke your monopoly of lounging about in dressing gowns."

"Hardly a monopoly," Holmes retorted. "Well, the foolishness is already done and I suppose no harm has come it of." He scrutinized me as if hoping to find some evidence of injury. "But when Jackson returns you shall be the one to justify your actions."

I merely reached for the latest edition of the _Times_, almost as hungry for news as I was for a real breakfast. "If it will be that much of a task perhaps I should defer it to you. After all, I am recuperating."

"I shall pretend I did not hear that," Holmes replied with aplomb. "Ill men must be humored, after all."

* * *

Gradually the temperature outside rose to a comparably warm high of just over freezing. The sun made more frequent appearances and the tapping of water from melting icicles set the tempo for daily life. I should have liked to go out and enjoy the coming of spring. However, I knew that the wind was still chill, my lungs were still not fully recovered, and I did not like to think of Holmes's overreaction if he knew I was even thinking of setting foot outside. And while I trusted my own judgment concerning the former two, the latter was beyond my influence.

That is why, over a fortnight later, I bundled up warmly against the wind and went out without saying a word to him. Along the way I purchased a few bunches of violets, one of the few flowers available this early in the year.

It was an overcast day with an as-yet unfulfilled promise of rain in the air. The ground was in that stage between melted snow and the first shoots of green. I knelt on one knee and used my bare hand to melt away the residual traces of frost from the headstone. The name – Elizabeth Ellen – was clear without my intervention but I did not like to think of ice upon my girl. Then I laid the violets at the base of it.

That accomplished, I stood, thrust my fists into my pockets and stepped back. The little bunch of purple flowers made a lonely splotch of color against the grey of the stone and the drab brown of the earth. It was more fitting, I thought, than the showy cheerfulness of daffodils or crocuses. That, and we had almost named her "Violet."

In the end we had named her for her grandmothers, both of whom had died young also. Were I superstitious man I might have seen some sort of omen there. Certainly it would have been a relief to blame _something_ for her death. Instead there was a myriad of grief and anger and guilt still not yet reconciled. Work, as Holmes had said, is an antidote to sorrow as well I knew. But one never really stops grieving for a lost child. I could imagine my daughter at four or at ten or at sixteen but I would never know how close my imagination would have matched reality. There lay the rub.

I thought again of her as I had known her – wide, bright eyes so eager to take in everything; Mary's blonde hair in little tendrils; ready, glowing smiles; and a loud, insistent voice that immediately broadcast her delight or displeasure.

I turned away sharply. I could never wish to give up those memories no matter the pain but I could dwell on them only so long before they became unbearable. I began to make my way home only to be halted in my tracks. "Holmes?"

He was a respectful distance away and positioned so that he would not have been able to see my face. Only now, upon my departure, did he venture near. "I would not have stopped you from coming, you know," he reproached.

"No, I didn't know," I answered frankly.

"For heaven's sake, Watson, the weather is much improved as is your cough. Even if they were not, do you honestly think I would try to forbid you to pay your respects to loved ones?"

I shrugged, appropriately chastised. Holmes made an irritated noise and took my arm in an abrupt gesture that ought to have been rough but was so light I barely felt it. We walked past the graves to the front gate in silence. Then, without looking at me directly, he said quietly, "You still feel culpable for your daughter's death."

We both knew it was not a question and I marked that Holmes did not use her name. "At the inquest it was asked why neither Mary nor I checked on her in the middle of the night."

"Why on earth would either of you have?"

"Three month old infants do not usually sleep through the night and require at least one nightly feeding."

"Hmm." Holmes seemed to be contemplating the role the care and feeding of babies might play a role in an investigation. "I take it she had not yet settled onto a nightly schedule."

"No. She had us up at all hours, impossible to predict – but how did you know?"

He smiled gently. "Because if she had been, you both would have been accustomed to waking at the same hour and would have done so that night even without hearing her cries. It was a simple leap to make. And I trust I would not be too far off the mark to if I said both you and your wife slept soundly that night out of sheer exhaustion."

"You are right on both counts." I found myself unable to add that it had been the first, and for a long while the last, satisfying sleep either of us had had since Ellie's birth. Of course, even if we had checked on her in the middle of the night it would have availed us naught. We still would have been hours too late. That did not stop the speculation. "I wonder sometimes if there was something that we could have done to save her if only we had been there in time. Or if her death was just inevitable, for whatever reason."

I could have bitten my tongue for having yet again lamented a mystery that not even Sherlock Holmes could solve. Failure does not sit well with him and I suspected he was already feeling out of his depth in this without my reminding him of his inability to help.

"If there was anything that could have been done you would have done it," Holmes said simply.

"Unless I did not know about it and thus couldn't act upon it," countered I.

"Honestly, Watson – "

"You did not know Victor Lynch felt a want of money five years and yet you feel responsible for his actions and their consequences even to this day," I pointed out. "So much so that you have gone out of your way to find him employment."

I had hoped he would see my point and when at last he murmured, "touché," I knew he did. By way of changing the subject I asked, "What became of the interviews, by the way?"

"He has received offers from both; he has not yet decided which he shall take."

"Thanks to you."

"Thanks to his own merits."

"Holmes, if you insist on taking blame for his failings you must also take credit for his successes."

My friend was quiet for a moment. "Your original comparison is not an apt one," said he, apparently ignoring my last piece of advice. "I was his mentor and my failure to instill in him a certain respect for the law led to his making that fateful choice. You were denied a choice." He paused. "I've no doubt you were a wonderful father to her and would have continued to be, given the chance."

I found I had to clear my throat. "Thank you." A minute later I added, "I'm sure you would have been an exceptional godfather."

At that Holmes halted. "I beg your pardon?"

"Had you been . . . available . . . we would have asked you to be her godfather."

It was one of the few times I have ever seen my friend speechless. "It is a role I would have been honored to accept. Although I must really question your judgment as to my suitability in such a role, I thank you all the same. And now, Watson, given the hour and the clement weather, what say you to an early supper at Macini's?"

The change of subject startled me until I realized it was Holmes's way of bringing us back to the here and now, away from the what-might-have-beens. It did not mean the past was to be forgotten, only put gently put aside so as not to smother the present. "By all means."

* * *

_I'm so sorry for the overly long wait for the conclusion! It was a lot harder than I thought to officially kill off Ellie after she's been living in my imagination for so long. (She's got a cameo in Chapt 1 of "More Things," if that gives you any idea of how long she's "existed.") Anyway, many thanks to all reviewers and especially to KCS for the loan of her bunny. _


End file.
